


Bottled Delights

by Purplesauris



Series: Vampire Jaskier [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Confessions, Corvo Bianco, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Finger Fucking, First Kiss, Higher Vampire!Jaskier, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Journal Entries, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Miscommunication, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Regis is the ultimate wingman, Smut, Tags will be added as chapters come out, They're stupid please be patient, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Vampire spit has properties and no one can tell me otherwise, barnabas-basil - Freeform, descriptions of violence, finished work, marlene the spotted wight queen, mentions of drinking, the best majordomo, they head to toussaint, wintering at corvo bianco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28250547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purplesauris/pseuds/Purplesauris
Summary: There are things that Geralt and Jaskier haven't told each other. Some weigh more heavy than others, and some come to light when destiny pushes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Vampire Jaskier [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100483
Comments: 39
Kudos: 362





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a completed work! I will update every tuesday until it is fully posted!! Higher vampire Jaskier is near and dear to my heart and y'all better hold on for the ride.

Jaskier was beginning to age. Geralt hadn’t noticed over the years that they’d traveled together, but Yennefer had pointed out wrinkles that weren’t there before, and Geralt had found himself looking. A spare glance while they sat around the fire, when Jaskier was plucking at his lute and humming some silly tune. Stared when Jaskier walked backwards, grinning wide and talking animatedly about a monster fight Geralt had let him watch. They were around his eyes, crows eyes from smiling so much, so bright, and Geralt didn’t think that they were really anything bad. Enough for Yennefer to tease him about, sure, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care much about them, and it made Geralt all the more aware of how truly human Jaskier was. For years he’d seemed ageless, content to walk along before him, but now he lingered sometimes, slowed down to take in a sight like it’d be the last he saw and then hurrying to catch up.

It was enough to get him thinking- how long did humans usually live? He’d seen many older people, but when he’d asked their age they hadn’t been much older than Jaskier. Jaskier, when pressed, insisted it was just good genetics. Geralt hadn’t stressed the issue, but he found himself watching Jaskier when the other man was at rest. His face evened out, and Geralt swore that sometimes he looked as youthful as he did the day they first met. Humans were impossible to figure out. 

Geralt gives up on the idea of figuring out just how long humans lived, instead deciding not to worry. As if thinking about when Jaskier would leave him didn’t leave a gaping wound in his chest he wasn’t sure how to fix. It keeps Geralt awake at times- makes his already slow heart stutter in his chest, but Geralt’s only hope is to keep him safe. He doesn’t let Jaskier go on hunts if he can help it, and is quick to stop any fights that Jaskier might start. That he starts frequently, with sharp words wielded like a dagger with the intent to protect Geralt. He’s in one such fight now, dragging Jaskier and another man apart as easily as if lifting two misbehaving cats. 

“Enough, Jaskier.” Jaskier’s eyes are cyan bright, shining with excitement, and he hangs by the back of his collar, blood trickling from a split lip. The other man is worse for wear, eye swelling already and at least one finger broken from where Jaskier had grabbed and wrenched. 

Geralt deposits the other man on his feet and though he sets Jaskier down, he doesn’t let go of him. “Geralt, let me go-”

“I said  _ enough _ , lark.” His tone is low, a warning, and Jaskier finally raises his hands and relaxes. Geralt glances at the other man, flicking his fingers back toward town. “Go get patched up.  _ Don’t _ bring friends back later. I don’t want anyone to die.”

The statement is simple, but the other man eyes the swords on Geralt’s back and spits blood in the dirt before hurrying away. That makes Jaskier jerk forward, but Geralt has a hand on him still and he grabs the back of Jaskier’s neck instead of his shirt, not wanting to rip the delicate fabric more than he already has. Jaskier sags in the grip immediately, and Geralt ignores the feeling that flops in his stomach at the sight.

“Why do you do that?” Jaskier grumbles, brushing a hand over his chin to wipe away blood and licking at his lip. Geralt only grunts in reply, turning and letting go to take Jaskier’s chin in hand. Jaskier starts, frowning, but Geralt sniffs lightly, scenting the blood in the air and peering at the cut on Jaskier’s lip. It looks better than he was expecting- Jaskier must not have gotten hit as bad as he thought. He holds Jaskier a moment longer than necessary, finally letting go when Jaskier gently jerks his head back and pulls from his grip. He drops his hands quickly, hiding a frown. 

Geralt takes a few steps back, putting space between them while Jaskier straightens his clothes and stoops down to get his lute. It’s safe in its case, and Geralt knows Jaskier set it down long before the fight broke out. Jaskier looks it over anyway, making sure the strings are still in place and no cracks have appeared within the wood. He plucks a couple strings, listening closely, and Geralt finds himself listening as well. He doesn’t hear a thing out of the ordinary and neither does Jaskier it seems, because he tucks it back away with a sigh. Jaskier makes his way back toward town and their things, Geralt trailing a few steps behind to watch for someone coming back despite his warning. They make it to the stable first for Roach, and the smell of hay calms the odd flopping of his stomach. 

“Why do you stop me, Geralt?”

Jaskier rounds on him, arms crossed, and Geralt can tell he’s angry, though he feigns careful indifference. He’s not entirely sure what to say, but Jaskier is patient this time, waiting until Geralt finally talks to let him step inside the stables.

“Don’t need anyone getting hurt.”

“I’d say you were a tad late for that, wolf.” Geralt looks at the bruising on Jaskier’s lip and firmly looks away again, nudging past Jaskier with a decided calm and going to get Roach’s saddle blanket. Geralt is almost done saddling Roach when he finally speaks again, and his voice is quiet enough that he doesn’t think Jaskier will hear him over the sound of Roach munching on hay. 

“I don’t deserve someone fighting over me.” 

Jaskier’s eyes blaze, and Geralt smells the sharp metal tang of Jaskier’s anger. “Yes, you do.” 

Jaskier storms out of the stable then, as if too angry at Geralt to even stay, and Geralt tries to hide the hurt confusion swirling in his head. Geralt uses the time alone to recollect his thoughts, and by the time that he leads Roach from the stables and toward the inn Jaskier is already outside, bags by his feet and arms crossed. Geralt stoops without a word to hoist the bags up onto Roach’s back and get them secured, spending a moment longer than needed to hopefully let Jaskier calm down. He can only tie for so long though, and he takes the reins gently, tugging Roach into motion. Jaskier follows along behind, silent, and they leave out of town before anything else can get complicated. Jaskier doesn't talk to him for the entirety of the day and Geralt pretends not to mind. The silence is something he hasn't had in weeks, and he finds it nags at him more than he would like. 

They set up camp that night quietly, without Jaskier's usual complaints, and Geralt finds his nerves frazzled, making him jump at any noise. He goes about sharpening his blades as a desperate attempt to calm himself, and the long, slow scrape of whetstone on metal helps. It keeps him from jumping when strings on a lute are plucked, stopping him from looking up in astonishment when Jaskier begins to hum. Geralt finds his shoulders relaxing, drooping the longer that Jaskier plays, and he ducks his head to hide the small smile he can't hold back. Jaskier might still be mad, but not enough to continue in sullen silence, and Geralt is grateful. 

When the two finally retire for the night Jaskier collapses onto his bed roll, back facing Geralt. Geralt knows Jaskier prefers not to put his back to a fire and he adjusts where he sleeps accordingly. Geralt closes his eyes, listening to the soft pattering of rabbit feet and steady thumping of Jaskier's heart. At some point through the night Jaskier shifts, letting out a shuddering breath that Geralt recognizes as him being cold. He reaches out without thought, half asleep, and pulls the man back against him. Jaskier tenses in his arms, as if debating, but he relaxes and presses back, stealing whatever warmth he can. Geralt huffs softly once Jaskier finally settles again, and falls back into a dreamless sleep. 

When Geralt wakes with the first beams of the sun, he does so slowly. Jaskier is still curled up beside him, fast asleep, and Geralt gingerly works his arm out from under Jaskier's head. His hair is soft in Geralt's hand, and for a moment he debates staying for a minute more, but he has things to attend to and can't be distracted. He smooths Jaskier's hair down before he gets up, knowing that Jaskier will gripe and moan if his hair is a mess later. And that's not something he wants to hear early in the morning. He goes about stoking the fire again and putting his things away, moving silently around the camp so that he won't wake the bard sleeping peacefully. His armor and swords go on reflexively as soon as he's fully awake. The last thing he needs is to be caught unaware and disarmed. After… well, he's been putting it off for a while, and he desperately needs celandine and wolfsbane, so he pads off through the forest in search of the yellow and purple flowers. Celandine grows like weeds in this area, easy enough for Geralt to pick, but the wolfsbane is trickier- he spends longer finding good stalks of it, and by the time he's done the sun is well above the horizon and animals have begun to wake up around him. As he gets closer to camp he hears Jaskier, singing in the early morning and moving through the camp in odd, shuffling steps. 

Geralt realizes with a jolt that he's  _ dancing _ . To his own singing. Geralt steps into the small clearing they'd claimed and watches, amused, as Jaskier dances with an invisible partner. He moves to tuck the flowers away in his satchel for use later, and blinks when Jaskier calls his name.

"Dance with me!" He says between lyrics, and Geralt shakes his head automatically.

"I don't dance." Jaskier raises his brows, comes closer, and raises an arm. Geralt's goes up automatically, palm brushing Jaskier's as he mirrors the other man's stance. Jaskier's grin is delighted, and he continues singing, moving through each step and goading Geralt into continuing. It's a dance that Geralt hasn't seen done at any ball in at least half a century, but the steps are more akin to the way he uses his blades and well… he thinks of it as practice, can imagine a blade in his hand if he wants, but Jaskier is close and very, very happy. The sunshine warmth of his happiness reminds him of freshly baked bread, and Geralt breathes deep to take it in.

The song reaches its crescendo, and Geralt's hand slides over Jaskier's abdomen as the man twirls into his arms, singing cutting off in lieu of laughter. "For all you say of not dancing, you make for a skilled partner."

Geralt can feel heat rising up his neck, and he forces the feeling down so he won't rub at the back of his neck. "That dance is old."

Jaskier's face fills with surprise, and he whirls in Geralt's arms, stepping back to get a better look at him. "You recognized it? You weren't just following my skillful lead?"

"No." He replies wryly, corner of his mouth twitching when Jaskier scowls. The expression doesn't last, and soon he's smiling again. "The last ball I went to, before you- it was popular then."

"And you learned it." Jaskier is still a ball of delight, and he claps his hands together, looking at him as if a thousand ideas have sprung up in his head. 

"I'm not going to more weddings with you, Jaskier." He wants to nip that thought in the bud now, before Jaskier forces him into more silk, but Jaskier only laughs and gives him a look as if to say  _ you never know. _ "How do you know it?"

Asking a question of Jaskier is risky, Geralt knows, but he'll allow his own curiosity this once. "Ah, I had dance lessons as a boy. I’m proficient in any dance you could think of through the last century. That one is a… guilty pleasure. It flows nicely, even without words in the music."

The excuse at the end seems flimsy, but Geralt can put pieces together. It means something, or meant something more to him at some point, and the memory seems painful. Geralt doesn't press, instead wordlessly moving to pack up camp. Jaskier extinguishes their fire, and Geralt raises an eyebrow to inquire about breakfast, but Jaskier tosses him a strip of jerky and an apple and nods toward the road. Or close to where the road is. Geralt merely shrugs at that, tearing a bite from his jerky and whistling to get Roach moving. 

Jaskier is in a grand mood all morning, and when they stop briefly in Lyria for more supplies, his mood dampens. Geralt isn't sure what's wrong, but Jaskier doesn't say a word when Geralt tilts his head in silent question. They leave Lyria as quickly as they came, and they're an hour outside the town when Jaskier slows to a stop at a crossroads. A farmer passes them in a cart, swearing at them for being in the way, and Jaskier gestures rather colorfully before turning to Geralt. This time he doesn't need to give a look before Jaskier is talking.

"It's fall, Geralt. If you don't turn back now you won't make it to Kaer Morhen in time."

"I'm not wintering in Kaer Morhen." Jaskier frowns, staring as if waiting for a joke.

"You always winter in Kaer Morhen. If you aren't, dear witcher, then  _ where _ are we going?"

Geralt's heart picks up at Jaskier's inclusion of himself, and he curls Roach's reins around his fist. "I- have a vineyard. In Toussaint."

"You realize I was nearly beheaded in Toussaint?" The bard's voice is dry, unamused, but Geralt pays it no mind. 

"It's a good thing I hadn't planned to invite Her Highness, then. Just you."

" _ This  _ is an invitation?"

"You wanted flowers?" The banter brings something warm to Geralt’s face, and he watches as Jaskier sniffs, tilting his head and somehow looking down his nose at Geralt. Despite it, his eyes are vulnerable, and Geralt isn’t thinking straight.

“They would have been nice.” Geralt sighs, shaking his head. He turns around, digging through his satchel for something. Jaskier watches curiously, eyes widening when Geralt turns around, a single celandine flower in his hand. He holds it out, glancing down at the ground when Jaskier reaches out to take the flower. Their fingers brush, Geralt’s eyes snapping up, and there are tears glimmering in Jaskier’s eyes. He wants to step forward, to hold him close and beg him to come, but Jaskier laughs wetly and tucks the flower behind his ear. 

“Come with me. Please.” His voice is terribly soft in his ears, thick with emotion he tries to swallow down, and he watches as Jaskier’s whole face softens, shoulders relaxing and a warm, dusky scent filling the air between them. 

“Even a please? You’ll make me cry, you big oaf. Obviously I’m going with you.” Geralt feels something in his chest go slack, and he allows a small smile to show through. “I believe you mentioned something about a vineyard, and where there’s grapes there’s wine.” 

-*-

The trek to Toussaint is infinitely better than the frigid trek up to Kaer Morhen. When Geralt had told the other witchers of his plans, they’d been more enthusiastic than he expected. They’d asked him to bring Jaskier to the keep someday, so they could finally meet him, but Geralt didn’t think he could do that yet. Not because he liked to part with Jaskier in the fall and miss him all through the winter, feeling like he was missing part of himself. No, it was because he didn’t know what he would do if Jaskier didn’t survive the journey up. It’s a thought that hollows his chest out, claws its way up his neck until he chokes on it at night when Jaskier is asleep and he’s left to his thoughts. Geralt tries not to think about it much, especially as they pass through a forest thick with vegetation and teeming with life. 

The closer they get to Toussaint the louder the noise gets, the more the birds sing, preening and flying from branch to branch. Geralt watches two blue jays chasing each other, looking over to find Jaskier watching as well, wonderment written all over his face. Jaskier sings to the forest, mimicking the bird cries as best he can and beaming when the birds call back. The trees fade away as they break out into the view of verdant hills, wild grasses swaying in the wind and all shades of wildflowers blooming along an entire hillside. Jaskier goes jogging ahead of him, looking around as if this were the first time all over again, and Geralt wonders what he sees now, years later. His lips itch to ask, but instead he leads Roach to a patch of grass that she can graze and allows Jaskier time to take in the sights. 

The sun is warm on his face, and he closes his eyes, tilting his head back to enjoy the feeling. Toussaint is hot even in the winter months, and Geralt basks in the sunlight. The smell of grass is sweet, the flowers even sweeter, and Jaskier’s soft lavender scent is right at home here. Geralt is enjoying the sun a bit more than he should he thinks, because he doesn’t notice when Jaskier comes back to him, touching his shoulder lightly and making Geralt blink his eyes open. The sun does wonders for the gold within the amber of Geralt’s eyes, and he looks most alive here, among green grasses and peace. 

“Resting your old bones?”

Geralt snorts, rolling his eyes and nudging Jaskier back a step. “Waiting on you.”

Jaskier bumps their shoulders together, grinning, and Geralt doesn’t push him away this time. They head south, further into Toussaint following the main road and passing by person after person. They pass by a vineyard, grapes running wild along trellises, the people farming and chatting amongst themselves. All raise a friendly hand to Geralt as he passes. A few of them cheer even, and Jaskier raises a brow at that.

“You’re popular here.”

He shrugs, hurrying his pace to try and get out of the vineyard a bit faster. Jaskier keeps up with his pace easily, and he pokes his elbow into Geralt’s side. Geralt growls softly, nudging him with his shoulder, and Jaskier does it harder until Geralt sighs in irritation. “I won the Tourney years back.”

“Glory seeker, eh?” Geralt scowls, and Jaskier pulls his lute around himself to pluck at the strings. 

_ Oh witcher-witcher, White Wolf of the North, Grand Champion of the South _ -

“I was trying to save a knight.” Geralt cuts in, trying not to scowl. Judging by Jaskier’s amusement it isn’t working, and he rolls his eyes, huffing. “They had a Shaelmaar.”

“A what?”

“It’s a large beast, covered in stone. They live underground, and have no sight. Their hearing is incredible.” Geralt relaxes while talking about the monster- it’s much easier to recite facts than tell a story that Jaskier will twist into a song later. “They had captured one and strapped bells onto its tail to hinder it.”

“Are they violent?”

“Not usually.” Geralt hears Jaskier mutter something about cruelty under his breath, and he nods in agreement. Jaskier doesn’t seem surprised that he heard, and Geralt continues when Jaskier prods him again. “Guillaume, he wanted to prove his love to one of the Duchesses ladies in waiting. He was doing well, overconfident, but skilled. The bells came off.”

“Taking away the beast’s handicap.” Geralt nods, losing himself in the memory of dancing around the huge mountain of a monster.

“The shaelmaar knocked him flat, and I- threw myself into the ring without thinking. Broke a couple ribs in the fight, but I was the only one left standing, so I won.”

Geralt mentally shakes himself, drawing back from the memory of the way the stadium had shaken when the beast collapsed. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to kill the beast, had told them to release it back to its home and leave it be. The landscape changes rapidly around them, and Geralt smells the river long before he sees it. A bridge comes into view, with a large inn plunked right next to it. The sun has begun to set as they come up to the waystop, and Geralt lets out a breath.

“Stopping for the night?” Jaskier looks curiously at the inn, reading the name on the sign and laughing quietly. 

“Unless you’d prefer to travel through the night to Corvo Bianco.”

“I could use some rest and good ale.” Jaskier admits, and Geralt sends him inside to secure them a room while he gets Roach settled in for the night. When he ducks inside, bags over his shoulder, Jaskier is backed up against the bar, a hand around his throat and the bard’s hands up in surrender. The knight’s bald head shines with sweat in the evening heat, and Geralt growls loudly. 

“I distinctly remember Her Highness telling you to stay away.” Geralt sees fingers dig into Jaskier’s skin, and Geralt snarls, moving through the crowd quickly. His grip is iron on the man’s shoulder, and relief is plain on Jaskier’s face when Geralt’s fingers dig in, making metal groan. The man looks back, and the sneer on his face quickly morphes to something of begrudging respect. “Geralt.”

“Damien. Let the bard go. Now.” His voice is razor sharp, shaking with the growl that’s built in his throat. Jaskier is released immediately, and Geralt sees a shaking hand come up to touch at his throat. “He’s with me.” He adds quietly, dropping his hand from the knight’s shoulder. Geralt sees Jaskier’s eyes narrow at the dents his fingertips have left in the shoulder of the breastplate, but Geralt doesn’t care. 

“Did the duchess send for your services again?”

“No. I’m wintering here.”

Understanding blooms on Damien’s face, and he takes a step back as Geralt slides to stand defensively in front of Jaskier. “With him?”

“With him.” Geralt agrees, and he sees a questioning look cross Damien’s face as he looks between the two of them. “We’re staying the night before we push on to Corvo.”

“Ah, your vineyard.” Geralt nods, and he feels one of Jaskier’s hands press between his shoulder blades. He doesn't know if it’s for support or comfort, but Geralt subtly leans back a bit to let him know he isn’t going anywhere. “Word of advice, Geralt. Get him out of the inn before morning.”

Geralt doesn’t move until after Damien backs off and goes back to his table, and it’s only to glare at the barkeep until a key is handed over. Geralt takes hold of Jaskier’s wrist, dragging him along and up the stairs. He stayed here once, years ago when he was hunting the Beast of Beauclair. It reeked of the river then too, and Geralt tries the key he was given until it opens a room overlooking the river, Geralt ushering Jaskier into the room in front of him. Their bags are deposited haphazardly, and Jaskier sucks in a breath when Geralt’s hands come up to cup his cheeks. He tilts Jaskier’s head back gently, looking his neck over. Angry red marks mar the smooth skin, and Geralt can feel the growl build back up in his throat. A hand comes down to slide over the marks gently, as if Geralt could wipe their existence away, and he startles when Jaskier’s hand comes up to gently hold his wrist. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt says immediately, going to pull back, uncomfortably aware of the intimacy of the moment, but Jaskier holds him tight, searching his face. 

“Thank you.” He doesn't know what Jaskier is thanking him for, but Jaskier lets him go finally and he takes a couple of steps back, tucking his hands at his sides. “I could have been beheaded for real this time.”

Unbidden, Geralt chuckles, and Jaskier laughs with him, as if chasing away the potential horrors of what could have happened. “Somehow I think you’d charm your way out of it again.”

“Ah, I’d be nothing without you, wolf. Saving the day, as usual.” Jaskier winks, and Geralt grumbles despite how ‘saving’ Jaskier makes him feel pleasantly warm. “Shall we retire early? I’d like to heed Sir Damien’s advice and be gone before anyone wakes.”

He sets about getting ready for bed in response, lighting a couple of candles so Jaskier can see easier. He wants to have a bath, considers ordering one, but his home is only a few scant hours away and he resigns himself to being patient. The bed is big enough for the both of them to sleep comfortably, but Jaskier snuggles up to him as if he were about to fall, and Geralt pretends that his heart doesn’t thunder in his chest at the casual closeness. Geralt spends the night holding Jaskier close, but he can’t bring himself to sleep. He knew that it would be a gamble to bring him here, but he hadn’t expected Jaskier to be recognized, at least not that fast. 

Jaskier shifts in his arms, tucking his face into Geralt’s neck and breathing deep. He hugs Jaskier a bit tighter, unable to help himself, and thanks whatever god might be watching that Jaskier is asleep. Jaskier is a fan of casual touches, but when they’re asleep is the only time that Geralt allows himself to touch back, to hold Jaskier close and pretend for a while that Jaskier could love him back. He touches his nose to the top of Jaskier’s head, scenting him lightly to make sure he isn’t having a nightmare before he finally allows himself to drift off. He slips into a meditative state easily, not quite sleeping but not quite awake, and stirs when the sun begins to color. He wakes Jaskier with a shake to his shoulder, and Jaskier grumbles the entire time they get dressed and prepare to leave. Geralt leaves the keys and a few coins for payment in a cup behind the bar and saddles Roach. 

Jaskier sways on his feet the entire time, yawning and eyelids drooping. He’s still half asleep, and Geralt watches him nearly fall over before sighing sharply. “Up.”

Jaskier stirs at his voice, letting out a sleepy ’hmm?’ before Geralt is using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back to usher him up and into the saddle. Despite his apparent fatigue he swings nimbly up into the saddle, and Geralt keeps a close eye on him as they cross over the bridge and head east. Jaskier nearly slips out of the saddle twice, and only Geralt grabbing at his thigh and digging his fingers in enough to wake the bard keeps him from taking a nasty tumble. They come up on Corvo Bianco as the sun slips over the horizon, washing the vineyard in splashes or orange and pink and gold. Jaskier is awake now, staring breathlessly at the rows upon rows of grapevines and the distant olive trees in full bloom. Upon their arrival workers hurry to take Roach to the stable and usher him toward the house, which sits above them on a hill. The white paint is as fresh as when the house was first renovated, and Geralt leads Jaskier up the small hill to the door. 

Jaskier is still looking around at the grounds in wonder when the door opens, a bald man in spectacles stepping out. “Master Geralt! I was beginning to wonder if you’d return to us.”

“Barnabas-Basil, good to see you again. Is the guest room ready?”

“Always, sir, follow me.” The bald man turns, arms tucked behind his back, and leads them into the house. The wood inside is a deep mahogany red, and Jaskier drinks in the sights of all the opulence. It…. doesn’t seem like Geralt’s style at all, but there are armor stands adorned with various sets and weapons all over the wall, and Jaskier knows that’s all Geralt. They stop briefly in the kitchen to see a kind older woman who smiles wistfully at Geralt and draws him into a tight hug. Much to Jaskier’s surprise, one of Geralt’s arms goes around her frail form and he’s smiling when they pull away.

“You look good, Master Witcher. Eating well?”

“Better now that I’m here.” Jaskier sees Geralt  _ wink _ , and the older woman swats his shoulder lightly and waves him off with a warning to be down for breakfast on time for once. Jaskier is in shock, witnessing the difference in Geralt’s demeanor, but this is his home it seems, in a way different from Kaer Morhen. There aren’t any memories of torturous training, merely happy people who seem devoted to serving him even in his long absences. He's more awake now than when he was on the way over, and he follows Geralt and Barnabas-Basil up the stairs. He isn't expecting much of the guest room, but the bed is sinfully plush and there are two different dressers to store his things in. The majordomo stands near the stairs, watching them expectantly.

"Is there anything else you require, sir?"

"How is the vineyard?"

"Flourishing, Master Geralt. The vines began producing some three years back, and the first vintage of Sepremento has aged beautifully. Would you like a bottle to accompany dinner tonight?" The majordomo puffs up with pride, and Jaskier stares incredulously at the fond way Geralt inclines his head.

"Please. Thank you B.B." The man bows at the waist before retreating down the stairs, and Jaskier feels something hot and ugly rear up in him. He tamps down on the feeling, keeping the biting edge from his words. 

"When you said you had a vineyard, I didn't expect  _ this. _ It's gorgeous here, Geralt." He's pleased to see the way that Geralt avoids his gaze, embarrassed by the compliments. His eyes are still fond when he looks at Jaskier finally, and Jaskier feels his heart give a traitorous leap in his chest. 

"It is. B.B helped this place rise again. It'll be good for him to have…"

"Have what?" Jaskier asks, curious. 

"Someone else of higher tastes." Jaskier can feel himself grinning, and he sits on the edge of the bed, pleased at the way he sinks down into the bedding a bit. He's never going to leave this bed if he can help it. 

"Ah, a man of class, hmm? He does seem rather refined." Jaskier muses, letting an edge bleed into his tone that implies many, many things. He doesn't know if Geralt even hears the small growl he lets out, but Jaskier does, and it pleases him immensely. Geralt may not feel the same as he does, but he's protective at least, and Jaskier's poor heart will take what it can get.

"Do  _ not  _ sleep with my majordomo." Geralt warns, scowling when Jaskier laughs. The thought leaves an ugly feeling in Geralt's stomach, and he stares until Jaskier sighs dramatically.

" _ Fine _ , Geralt. But, if I am to be so woefully chaste, I expect my  _ own _ bottle of wine. I've heard stories of Sepremento."

“That’s all?” Jaskier flops back on the bed, stretching and groaning as Geralt pads closer, looking down at him. “Breakfast isn’t for another hour, if you wanted to sleep.”

“What would happen if I were late?” Jaskier’s lips curl in an amused smile, and it widens when he hears Geralt laugh softly and glance toward the stairs. 

“Marlene has dragged me from bed more than once.”

“How do you know her? You two are familiar with each other.” Jaskier tries not to let the bitterness he feels slip through, and luckily Geralt doesn’t seem to notice. 

“She was cursed as a young woman, and lived for a while as a spotted wight. I broke the curse and brought her here to be cared for.”

“And let her stay, it seems.” 

“She had nowhere. She watched her family die, and she refuses money. All she wants is to cook.” Geralt eases himself down beside Jaskier, not laying because of his swords, but sitting close. Jaskier can feel the heat of his thigh but not the touch, and he debates shifting closer. 

“Why was she cursed?” Jaskier catches the dark look that flits over Geralt’s face, and he sits up, tilting his head to try and get a better look. 

“That’s her story to tell you.”

“It isn’t pleasant, is it? It rarely is.” Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s knee, and he sees the way that Geralt’s shoulders jerk minutely. 

“Some would rather I have kicked her out.” Is all that Geralt will say in return, and Jaskier leaves it alone. Geralt reaches, touching his fingers lightly against the back of Jaskier’s hand before slipping from his grip and standing up. “Rest a bit. Come down when you hear the bell.”

Jaskier wants to tell Geralt he isn’t tired, or better yet to tell him to stay, but the words hide in his throat and he just nods. He doesn’t bother getting under the covers, instead sprawling out on top of the sheets and closing his eyes. Geralt heads back downstairs, trying to shake himself from the weird stupor he feels himself sliding into. He stops briefly by his room, shedding his armor and weapons. He won’t need them while in the house, and even if he did, there are plenty placed strategically throughout the room. B.B. comes back in, gwent deck in hand, and Geralt grabs his from his pack. They’re deep in a game when the breakfast bell rings, and Geralt hears Jaskier’s heart give a jerk as he wakes up. B.B. abandons the game quickly, sweeping his cards up as Geralt does the same. They don’t have much time either, as Marlene begins piling dishes on the table in front of them. 

Geralt stands, taking plate after plate, finding a space as best he can. His head twitches just barely when footsteps scrape on the wood stairs, and he doesn’t turn as he places a plate of glazed ham on the table. 

Geralt hears the sound of skin on skin, and he looks up to see Jaskier holding his hand as Marlene shakes a finger. “Go wash up young man, then come back to my table.” 

Jaskier shares an outraged look at being scolded like a child, but Geralt raises a brow and inclines his head toward the kitchen. Jaskier scoffs, disappearing into the kitchen to do as Marlene insists. B.B. takes as many plates as he can carry to the servants quarters, and Marlene disappears to help as well. Jaskier comes back smelling of herbal soap, and Geralt motions for him to take a seat. Jaskier looks around warily, as if Marlene will reappear, but Geralt shakes his head, seating himself. 

Neither of them say much of anything, instead digging in and enjoying the heavenly taste of good cooking. Geralt watches in amusement as Jaskier takes some of everything, from eggs to ham to some of the more regional dishes. He samples it all, and Geralt sits back to sip at a bitter tea that Marlene insists is good for one in the morning. 

“We’re going out after breakfast.”

Jaskier glances up from his plate, tilting his head. “Where, dear witcher?” 

“A graveyard. There’s… Someone I want you to meet.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes Jaskier to a graveyard to meet an old friend, and have a couple of drinks too.

The graveyard is south of Beauclair, on the edge of the Caroberta woods, and it takes them nearly half a day to get there. The closer they got to the city proper the more nervous Jaskier got, though he tried to hide it with witty comments or the strumming of his lute. Geralt knew better, but he also had no intention of dipping into the city, at least not with Jaskier in tow. They skirt the city instead, walking along the shoreline and heading up the hill. Rows upon rows of headstones dot the landscape between trees, some fallen, some weathered by years of wind and rain. Jaskier stays a bit closer than is strictly necessary, glancing around uneasily. 

“Geralt, when you said we were going to a graveyard, I didn’t think you meant it.”

“What would I have meant?” He glances over at the bard, arching a brow when Jaskier looks around nervously. Geralt can hear crows in the trees, and one alights atop a tombstone near them as they head further in, staring and tilting its head. Jaskier shoos the bird away, frowning, and mutters something about an omen of death. Geralt doesn’t point out that they’re in a graveyard, and this is where crows  _ should _ be. They stop in front of the only crypt, Geralt trying to knob and growling when it won’t budge. 

“Er, relatives of yours in there?”

“No. C’mon.” He slips down the hillside a bit, dropping down into a hole in an old grave and staring up at Jaskier. The bard shuffles his feet, frowning, and Geralt holds a hand up. “Scared?”

“Of being caught in someone’s grave? Yes, Geralt, I’m hardly in good standing as it is.” 

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” He promises, keeping a hand outstretched until Jaskier sighs heavily and turns to lower himself into the grave. He hangs from the lip of the hole for a second before Geralt’s hands grab at his hips, bearing his weight easily as he’s lowered into the hole and set on the rocky ground. He lets go once Jaskier is steady on his feet, heading deeper into the cave. It’s dark, even for Geralt, and he reaches out to take Jaskier’s hand when he lags behind. The scent of an old kikimore den lingers in the air, but Geralt can’t hear anything scurrying around underground and there are no egg sacs for him to burn. Nothing seems to have set up shop in the years he’s been gone, and he treks through the cave until it breaks into the bottom of the crypt. 

“Why are we sneaking into the crypt?”

“You’ll see.” Geralt hoists himself up and into the crypt, turning on his toes and reaching down to offer a hand to Jaskier again. Low light filters in from candles lit throughout the crypt, and Jaskier waves his hand off, pulling himself up through the hole and brushing the dirt off of his pants. Jaskier looks around curiously, skirting stone coffins until a friendly voice calls from above them.

“Geralt! Do you ever think of knocking, old friend?” Upon following the sound of the voice Jaskier sees a man standing on a ledge with his arms behind his back. His clothes are old, covered in dirt, and he can smell the pungent pinch of herbs mixed with cologne. 

“If knocking would work, I’d try.” Geralt looks back toward Jaskier, making sure he hasn’t run away. Instead, Jaskier seems puzzled, and Geralt leads them up the stairs to what looks like a living area. Books are stacked neatly on shelves lining the walls, and candles light the area in a warm orange glow. They head for the ledge, now face to face with whoever has taken up residence in the crypt. The man’s eyes are dark, bloodshot, but he regards them warmly, smile on his face. His hair is grey, hairline receding badly, and it reminds Jaskier of old professors. Recognition lights in the man’s eyes at the same time he spots Jaskier lingering slightly behind Geralt’s shoulder. The man’s grin stretches, showing off rather pointed teeth, and he laughs as Jaskier barrels forward. The man sweeps Jaskier up into a hug, and this time it’s Geralt’s turn to be confused, watching with brows furrowed. 

Jaskier pulls back, staring, and his voice is soft, almost sorry. “I didn’t know you knew Geralt.”

“I should say the same to you, young one. When did you meet?” 

“Oh, some twenty years or so ago, I would say. In a backwater tavern in Posada.” Jaskier’s eyes are soft and happy when he finally steps back and turns to Geralt. “You could have just told me we were visiting Regis, lovely Geralt.”

“I- didn’t know you knew each other.” Geralt looks between the two of them, and Regis seems to take pity, laughing softly and ruffling Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier squawks indignantly, rushing to fix his hair and glaring up at the older man. 

“Jaskier is a student of mine, you could say. He was brought to me when he was young for tutoring. He proved a stubborn student at first.” 

“Hey!” Jaskier scowls, but there’s no real malice and Geralt relaxes a bit. He has no clue if Jaskier knows what Regis is, and he raises a brow in question. Regis nods once, glancing down at Jaskier and flashing his teeth in another grin. Jaskier doesn’t seem phased by the sharp teeth in the slightest, and Geralt relaxes further. “How did  _ you _ two meet?”

“Ah, a story best told over a drink, I think. Please, make yourself at home.” Regis motions over toward the table tucked into the corner, and Geralt sits down, tensing when Jaskier plops into his lap and makes himself comfortable.

“Jask-” The man hums, looking down at him and grinning. 

“There’s only two seats, love, so you’ll have to share.” Geralt grunts, shifting a bit and letting Jaskier settle more comfortably. He isn’t… bothered by it, but Regis’ eyes are sharper than anyone he knows and he’s not inclined to ward off questions today. Regis, to his credit, only gives them an amused look before settling in the other chair with a bottle and three small cups. Geralt can already smell what’s in the bottle and he wrinkles his nose in distaste. Jaskier, on the other hand, is the one to pour their first round, and he taps his cup against Geralt’s before downing the drink. Geralt’s own shot goes down like hellfire, and he clears his throat, grimacing. Jaskier notices and he grins cheekily. “Too much?”

“Not a fan of mandrake.” Jaskier hums, but pours them all another glass anyway, and downs it as quickly as the second. Regis seems more inclined to take it slow, and he watches the two of them quietly. 

“So, the story of how you two met?” 

“Ah yes. I believe it was during the second Northern war? Geralt threatened to stab me when I hid from them, and so naturally I did as anyone would do.”

“Came out?” Another round is poured, and Geralt’s limbs are beginning to feel warm.

“Invited his company back to my cabin for moonshine. It turned out to be a wise decision, as his friend, Zoltan I believe it was, was particularly taken by the drink.”

“When did you reveal yourself?” The question is asked lightly, but Geralt can feel a line of tension going through Jaskier and he frowns. 

“Geralt inferred much, but I was not particularly subtle then. We’d known each other a few months I believe. He’s always been rather noble, and merely told me to leave lest he have to do something regrettable.” 

“And here you are now, drinking together.” Regis inclines his head, smiling, and finishes his drink. “Is anyone else of your clan still around?”

“Hmm, most have gone into hiding or assumed human lives,” Regis’ eyes glitter in the candle light, pleased, and he downs the shot that Jaskier has just poured him. Geralt is offered another, but he waves it off. If he has another he won’t be able to get them home, and he’d rather have a clear head by the time they leave. “Though Dettlaff was here a few years back. Made quite the mess of the city.” 

“Ah, the Beast of Beauclair? That’s when you were given the vineyard, right?” Jaskier’s attention turns to Geralt, who nods. “You never did tell me the full story.”

“Allow me to tell it. You’ll get far more details that way, I think.” Geralt snorts but waves for Regis to continue. The less talking he has to do the better, and Regis is a much better storyteller anyhow. Geralt listens quietly as Regis recounts the tale in its entirety, pausing when Jaskier asks questions and occasionally glancing at Geralt to fill in what details he doesn’t have. The contract had begun as mysteriously as any of his other contracts did, just a notice on the board, but knights had awaited him in a tavern and brought him personally to the palace to see the Duchess. Geralt can see Jaskier’s mind whirling along with the details he gets, thinking of a thousand new lyrics and what chords would suit them beautifully. He’s always worn the same expression while inspired, and it grows muddier and muddier the more that Jaskier drinks. Regis matches him drink for drink, but it isn’t going to affect him in any memorable way and Geralt should be mad, since he’ll have to carry a sloshed bard all the way back to Corvo Bianco. But he isn’t. 

Jaskier obviously missed Regis’ company, and Geralt can admit to himself that he did too. He’s probably the most understanding person outside of his brothers, and Geralt finds it a bit ironic that no human truly understands him. Jaskier comes as close as anyone can get, but there are things he won’t ever be able to share, and the thought brings with it a heaviness in his heart that he tries to brush off. 

The candles have melted low by the time Jaskier’s head lolls against his shoulder, the bard snoring softly. Geralt tunes back into the conversation, looping an arm around Jaskier’s waist to keep him from falling. “You should be heading home now, Geralt.”

“Yeah. It was… Good to see you again.” Regis smiles as Geralt stands, hoisting Jaskier in his arms and trying to adjust as best he can to carrying the man. He isn’t terribly heavy, but it’s going to be a long walk home and he silently curses the mandrake moonshine for being so potent. 

“Ah, but you haven’t gotten rid of me yet. I’ll accompany you home, it’s the least I can do for letting him get so inebriated.” 

“Hmm.” Still, he has no true objections, so Geralt follows Regis up and out of the crypt into the cool balm of night. The forest is eerily quiet save for the flapping of wings, and a crow alights on Regis’ arm as soon as he emerges. The vampire listens for a moment before thanking the bird and sending it off, leading Geralt up and out of the graveyard. 

“It appears that the crows have spotted a monster den near your vineyard.”

“You have them watch my vineyard?” Geralt isn’t sure if he should be thankful or upset, but Regis nods as if it were obvious. 

“When you are in Toussaint, my friend, they watch very closely. Monsters need slaying, and I hardly think anyone will give  _ me _ the contract.” Geralt grunts at that, but it’s… touching. And a little creepy. They cut through the city instead of skirting it this time, the streets deserted and most sane people already in their beds. “You want to know if I approve of him.”

Geralt catches himself, nearly stumbling, and turns to look at Regis, brows raised. “Approve?”

“I am not a father figure like your Vesemir, but you want to know if I like him. If your courting him will not turn people against you.” 

“I don’t-”

“Geralt, do not sully our friendship by lying to me now. I know you better than that.” Geralt panics for a moment, listening hard to the way that Jaskier’s heart is beating, but it hasn’t changed, and Jaskier is thoroughly wiped out by the moonshine. “People will care.”

“Then I can’t.”

“Not so. People will always care, regardless of what you are. Does  _ he  _ care?”

“I- haven’t told him.” Regis hums like that’s an answer all in itself, and Geralt swallows down nerves that have sprung up. He’s never said anything like this in the open, admitted to anything, and saying it makes it  _ real _ . 

“Then I believe, my friend, that you should begin by doing that much.”

The rest of the walk back is done in relative silence, Geralt’s mind flying in a thousand different directions. He doesn’t know the first thing about talking about his feelings, how to put them into words the way that others seem to do so easily. Like how Lambert spits and rages, firebright, or how Eskel is quicker to smile, to show his hard earned joy. When he smiles it feels like a release and a curse at once, when tears prick at his eyes it feels like a betrayal. When he looks at Jaskier he chokes on love, can barely breathe for fear that he’ll start talking and never stop. Starting, not choking back his words is the hardest part, the thing that scares him the most. Because once he says how he feels, opens himself up, he can never get that back, and he…. Doesn’t know what he would do if Jaskier took those words, those feelings, held them close, and found them wanting. 

Regis leaves him when they finally get back to the house, giving his shoulder a squeeze and a very pointed look. Geralt retreats inside and up the stairs to the guest bedroom, sitting Jaskier on the bed and huffing. Geralt strips Jaskier’s boots off, debating whether he should leave the man in his clothes, but Jaskier will lament the creases in his silk in the morning. He shakes Jaskier’s shoulder lightly, whispering his name. Jaskier stirs slowly, groaning and waving his hand in Geralt's general direction. 

“Jaskier, you need to get out of your clothes.”

“Going kinda fast huh?” Geralt laughs quietly, rolling his eyes, and he allows Jaskier to make a couple more jokes while he tugs Jaskier's doublet and shirt off. He leaves Jaskier to worry about his pants, and he drapes them over the top of the dresser so they can be washed early. They reek of the cave and the musty smell of the crypt, and he doesn’t need anyone asking questions. Jaskier crawls under the covers, blue eyes hazy and half lidded. “I like you.”

Geralt’s heart picks up, but he pads forward to tuck the blanket up around Jaskier a bit more, lips twitching in a smile. “I like you too, Jaskier. Go to sleep.” 

Geralt turns to leave now that Jaskier is safe in his bed, but Jaskier catches his wrist, fingers warm against his skin. “Stay? I don’t- don’t sleep well when you’re gone.” 

Geralt turns to look back at him, debating, before he sighs and slips out of his armor. His weapons are left propped against the nightstand, and he nudges Jaskier’s shoulder gently with a hand. “Scoot.” 

Jaskier scrambles to move to the other side of the bed while Geralt slips under the covers, getting himself comfortable and holding an arm up in invitation. Jaskier takes it without a word, pressing up against his side and sighing when Geralt’s arm settles over him. Jaskier closes his eyes again, relaxing, and Geralt hears Jaskier murmur quietly. “Thank you, Geralt.” 

-*-

Geralt hears a pained groan from next to him when he wakes up, a laugh bubbling up unprompted. “That’s what you get for drinking with Regis.”

“Don’t  _ laugh _ Geralt, my head is splitting.” Geralt laughs again, and he sits up, brushing his hair back out of his face. His tie has come out at some point in the night, but Geralt faintly recalls fingers carding through his hair. Interesting. 

“Did you have a good time?”

“Very much so. I missed him.”

“Then stop complaining.” Jaskier gasps in outrage, but Geralt is already slipping from bed before Jaskier can swat at him. Geralt pulls on his pants, turning to find Jaskier on his side, head propped in one hand, watching him. Despite his mock anger and the evident pain in his head, he’s smiling, and Geralt tips his head in question. 

“You stayed. I didn’t think you would.” Jaskier looks uncertain for a moment, fear flickering briefly in his eyes, before he speaks again. “Geralt… I don’t remember much from last night. But....”

Geralt’s heart leaps up into his throat at the same time his stomach drops out, and he stares as Jaskier sits up, wringing his hands in his lap. He’s never seen Jaskier this uncertain, this nervous, even before a performance or when Geralt had come back from a hunt dripping blood. “But?”

“What I do remember, it was nice. To pretend for a while.” 

“Pretend?” He feels like a broken record repeating words over and over, but he can’t seem to say anything more and it frustrates him, as it always has. Jaskier’s look is wistful, sad, and he laughs softly, pressing his shaking fingers against the blanket to try and hide them from Geralt. 

“That you care for me.”

“I do.” Jaskier looks up, that same sad look on his face, and this time when the words come burning through his chest, he takes a deep breath and lets them go. “I  _ do _ . You’re- the most important thing in my life.”

“More than Roach?” Jaskier’s voice is artificially light, and Geralt laughs despite himself.

“That might be pushing it.” He says it without thinking, but Jaskier chuckles and Geralt finds himself moving without his control. He leans forward, a hand coming up to cup the back of Jaskier’s neck with a trembling hand. Jaskier’s eyelids flutter at the touch, and Geralt dives fully off the deep end. “I love you.”

He kisses Jaskier before he can respond, needing this, the touch, just once. No matter what happens now, Geralt will live with it. He isn’t expecting anything, though his heart hopes desperately, but Jaskier makes a soft, pleased noise against his mouth and rises up onto his knees. Geralt moves with him, sighing as Jaskier’s hands slide over his ribs and press into the small of his back to bring them closer together. Jaskier’s lips are velvet soft against his, and Geralt rubs soothing circles into the base of Jaskier’s skull as the man melts into his touches. They pull apart to breathe, and Geralt dips back to kiss him again without thinking, once, twice, just slow, gentle kisses that don’t last terribly long at all. Jaskier seems to bask in each one, and it takes him a second to open his eyes when Geralt pulls back to look at him. 

“I love you, too.” Jaskier rushes to say, as if afraid the moment would break. That he would wake up. 

Geralt smiles this time without reserve, voice lighter than it has been in months. “Good. It would be awkward otherwise.” 

Jaskier laughs then, a joyous full bodied laugh, and he leans their foreheads together, a smile playing at his lips. “Did you invite me to Toussaint for a romantic getaway?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Very much so.” Jaskier looks like he’s about to say something else when a bell chimes through the house. Geralt swears, jerking back, and Jaskier chases him to press a firm kiss to his lips. “Go stall, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

Geralt tosses his shirt on, tucking it in hastily and jogging down the stairs. Marlene squints at him, but he hurries to the kitchen to wash up and bring out the plates still remaining on the counter. She gives him another look, but by then Jaskier is padding down the stairs as well, dressed in a rather lovely forest green that makes the blue of his eyes seem closer to a sea foam. He goes to wash his hands automatically this time, avoiding a rap on the knuckles, and joins Geralt at the table to eat. The food seems to do Jaskier wonders for his headache, and he eats voraciously, snagging the last piece of ham from Geralt’s fork when Geralt offers it up. By the time he’s eaten his fill his eyes are bright and Geralt can’t smell a whiff of pain at all, and it makes him wonder just how much Jaskier likes to lean into dramatics. 

“Where are we going today?” Geralt looks up from his cup of tea, and he hums, thinking it over. 

“Regis’ crows found a monster den near the vineyard. I’ll have to head out to investigate.”

“Great! I can help pre-”

“Jask. You aren’t going.” Geralt’s tone is gentle, but Jaskier scowls immediately and Geralt braces for an argument. 

“That’s hardly fair! What am I going to do here while you hunt?”

“B.B. wanted to give you a tour of the grounds.” Geralt offers up, but Jaskier is still scowling, arms crossed against his chest. “The monsters here are different. I’ll bring you to see  _ after _ they’re dead, when it’s safe for humans.”

“That isn’t nearly as exciting.”

“Better than not seeing it at all.” Jaskier sighs heavily, but his scowl has lessened into a displeased pinch between his brows, and Geralt rises to press a kiss to Jaskier’s forehead. “I’ll be quick. Enjoy the tour, and ask questions. He likes to talk.”

“Mhmm. Unlike someone.” Geralt huffs a laugh, and Jaskier catches him by the collar to kiss him softly. Being able to do so sends a thrill down Geralt’s spine. He drifts off to get ready and collect his swords from upstairs, coming down the stairs to see Jaskier being collected by B.B. for the tour. Jaskier winks at him over his shoulder, apparently forgiven, and Geralt heads off toward the rows of grapes in the distant foreground. He knows based upon past experience that monsters like to lurk in the grapes, and so he starts his looking there, weaving between rows and keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. He finds tracks in the southwest corner of the vines, and follows them to a small cave in the hillside. It’s cramped and not very dark, and Geralt sees arachnomorphs crawling around inside. Slaying them is easy enough, and he takes the time to burn the eggs as well. 

He almost feels bad that he didn’t let Jaskier come along, but there’s no way they would both have been in there without Jaskier getting hit, so he uses that thought to keep his guilt at bay. Regis never said it was a  _ dangerous _ monster den. Once he’s out of the cave and heading back he detours toward the garden, nostrils flaring at the familiar scents of useful herbs. His majordomo had suggested redoing the garden entirely, and Geralt had spent the better part of a year collecting seeds from all his most useful plants to be grown in the rich soil of Corvo Bianco. He spies Jaskier and the majordomo heading this way, and Geralt heads to intercept them. The garden is the last leg of the tour, but Jaskier seems surprised to see him this early. 

“Geralt, back so soon?”

“Just arachnomorphs. B.B., mind if I take over?”

The majordomo bows, a respectful smile on his face. “Not at all. You know these plants better than I. Master Jaskier, if you require anything else, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Barnabas-Basil.” Jaskier turns back toward Geralt once the other man has left, and he places his hands on his hips. “Too dangerous, huh?”

“I wasn’t told  _ what _ was around.” Geralt points out, though his voice is sheepish, and Jaskier harrumphs. “You’ve seen them before.”

That stops Jaskier’s pouting in its tracks, and he purses his lips, squinting. He sighs heavily then, taking Geralt’s hand and pulling him between the rows of the garden. “That I have. Show me your garden, love.”

Geralt takes his time walking Jaskier around, pointing out the wolfsbane, bison grass, honeysuckle and mandrake root just barely peeking up out of the dirt. There are dozens more that he doesn’t manage to rattle off before Jaskier, who’s seen and handled them a thousand times to help with potions, and Geralt feels a flush of affection sweep through him. He clearly pays attention even when chattering away about nothing. “You listened.”

“It was interesting!” Jaskier says defensively, but Geralt gives him a look and Jaskier’s cheeks flush. “Fine, I intentionally asked about your plants because it was the only time you would talk to me. Especially at first.”

“It bothered you, didn’t it?”

“I didn’t know why you wouldn’t respond to me. Not until I stayed longer. You talk plenty, I just… Wasn’t in tune yet.” 

“Poetic.” 

“Oh fuck you, Geralt.” There’s no bite to his words, and he doesn’t fight as Geralt pulls him close and places soft kisses on the smooth expanse of Jaskier’s neck. His bruises have faded to a near invisible yellow, and Geralt takes a moment to kiss each one in apology. Jaskier leans against him, humming happily, and Geralt uses a finger under Jaskier’s chin to tip his head up so Geralt can kiss him easier. Jaskier leans heavily into him, one of Geralt’s arms going around Jaskier to hold him a bit closer. Jaskier murmurs against his lips in between kisses, not willing to get very far. “I’m still mad at you.”

“Want to talk about it?” Jaskier snickers at that, and Geralt takes the opportunity to kiss him breathless. He’s certainly in tune by now, and Jaskier drapes his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, fingers tugging through his hair idly. Geralt loses track of how long they stay there, holding each other and being warmed by the sun, but eventually Jaskier pulls back, petting through Geralt’s hair. 

“Very interesting conversation, but I think it isn’t one we should be having in full view of everyone.”

“Was it getting  _ that  _ interesting?” Geralt’s pulse speeds up a bit when he takes in the way Jaskier’s lips are red from kissing, and he watches as Jaskier talks, entranced. 

“ _ Very _ much so. We should continue it inside. It’s bad luck to leave a conversation undone.” Jaskier leads him by the hand up the hill to the house, then up the stairs to the guest bedroom, smiling all the while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is more to Jaskier than meets the eye.

Geralt finds that their relationship… doesn’t really change much after his confession. Jaskier was never one to hide affections before, but now Jaskier is touching him constantly. A hand on his arm when he passes by, a kiss on his cheek whenever Geralt comes back from town. Geralt hasn’t slept a single night in his actual room, mostly because Jaskier says the bed is too comfortable to just ignore. Geralt doesn’t point out that the bed in his room is just as comfortable. The best part of their new relationship is the kissing. Jaskier might say the sex, and Geralt can’t deny it, but sex he’s had before. He hasn’t been able to kiss Jaskier before, not in any reality, so he finds his eyes drifting, watching the way that Jaskier talks or sings and looking away quickly when caught. Jaskier seems to delight in the attention, and he’s more than willing to kiss him when Geralt isn’t truly paying attention, just to bring him back. 

They’re laying in bed, legs twined under the blanket and Jaskier laying practically on top of him. The night air blows through the room, raising goosebumps across Jaskier’s exposed back, but that could also be because of Geralt’s fingers, sliding featherlight over the bumps of Jaskier’s spine. 

“Why don’t I get to go out on hunts with you?” Jaskier’s tone is airy, light, but Geralt can smell his disappointment. 

“You could get hurt. Or recognized.”

“I’ve been on plenty of hunts before, for far more dangerous monsters than some  _ nekkers _ , Geralt.” A pout begins to form on Jaskier’s face and Geralt’s hand slides up and down his back in soothing strokes. Jaskier relaxes against him, but his eyes are shadowed and Geralt frowns. 

“Why do you want to see nekkers?”

“I don’t! I want-” Jaskier cuts off in frustration, forehead thumping against Geralt’s chest as he hangs his head and sighs. Geralt prods gently between Jaskier’s shoulder blades in a silent request, and Jaskier lifts his head after a moment. “I want to go out with you, not be stuck here waiting for you to get back. I want to see you fight, even if it’s just some stupid nekkers or spiders or or-”

“What happens if I can’t protect you, or a knight happens by and sees you?” Geralt’s other hand comes up to gently touch Jaskier’s neck. The bruises from their first night are long gone, but they’re fresh in Geralt’s mind, and Jaskier can tell with startling clarity that the witcher is  _ scared _ . 

“Have you ever thought that maybe I don’t need protection?”

Geralt makes a noncommittal noise at that, gaze unfocused, and Jaskier sighs heavily. He tucks his head under Geralt’s chin, Geralt’s arms going around him more securely, knowing he won’t get much out of Geralt now. He’s seen it before, the way that Geralt loses focus when his past drags him down, and there’s almost nothing he can do to yank Geralt back to the present. He closes his eyes instead, knowing the best that can be done for either of them is a little sleep. 

Jaskier wakes up with the sun, used to the routine, and finds Geralt already up, pacing. He’s in his armor, blades strapped across his back, and he turns when Jaskier shifts, holding out a silent hand. Geralt comes over, takes it in his and presses it to his lips as he crouches by the bedside. Jaskier hums sleepily, rolling fully onto his side. 

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, love. I pushed you too hard.” Geralt can feel guilt clawing in his stomach, and he doesn't  _ like _ leaving Jaskier here, but he doesn’t know what he would do if a knight less understanding than Damien were to find the two of them in Toussaint. He’s surprisingly less worried about the monsters- Jaskier has seen many, read through Geralt’s bestiary more than once and knows the common ones on sight. 

“I won’t take long. Back before lunch.” Jaskier hums, cupping Geralt’s cheek with the hand he still holds and drawing him in for a kiss. Geralt lingers for a moment longer than he should, and eventually Jaskier has to tell him to go. He ducks out of the house into the early dawn morning, heading for the stable where Roach has already been prepared. He lifts himself up into the saddle easily and sets off on the road away from the vineyard. As far as he knew it was just going to be a simple hunt- one that wouldn’t take him long at all, and would have disappointed Jaskier to watch. 

It’s farther out than his other contracts have been, and closer to the city as well. He’d tried to say that, to tell Jaskier that, but the words had gotten too tangled in him and he hadn’t been able to find a way to get them out. Geralt rides through the morning, watching the sun rise in front of him as he heads east, further inland toward where the villagers had instructed him. The monster seemed far from any kind of civilization, but a contract was a contract and they’d need coin when they left in the spring. The trees begin to thin more the closer that they get, and Geralt stops when the scent of decay hits him. He leaves Roach near the treeline, not bothering to tie her. He’d rather she run away if a nekker gets too close than stay and be eaten. She’ll come back eventually. 

He follows the scent further out of the treeline, and he breaks out into a clearing  _ filled _ with nekkers. More than he’s ever seen before in one place. He swears colorfully, unsheathing his sword when the first one notices him. Nekkers are annoying at most, but Geralt counts at least twenty of them and large groups can be deadly alone. His only hope is going to be to isolate with his signs. Geralt cuts the first three down with relative ease, but they keep coming, swarming around him, and where Geralt dodges one another waits, slashing at him with sharp claws. His armor takes the brunt of it, but one slashes a gouge into his thigh and he grunts in pain. A blast of Aard gets most of them away from him and he doubles down, cutting through the crowd of them and whittling away at their numbers. He sees a flash of teal in his periphery, and he turns in surprise as Jaskier leaps nimbly back from the claws of a nekker and dispatches it with a long, sturdy dagger. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt has no clue how he managed to keep up, or when he’d followed, but Geralt fights his way through the rest of the nekkers, using a small bomb to destroy the nest before storming over to where Jaskier stands, wiping his blade off on a piece of cloth before sheathing it. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

“Ah, Geralt! You seemed like you could use some help.” Jaskier turns to him with a grin, but Geralt growls, scowling. 

“How did you get here?”

“I walked? Really Geralt, I’ve kept up with you for years, doing it now is child's play.”

“I told you to stay  _ home _ . They could have killed you.” Geralt takes a step closer, thigh protesting, and Jaskier’s gaze flicks down. He sees Jaskier’s pupils go wide and his nostrils flare. 

“You’re hurt.”

“ _ I _ will heal. If one of them had bitten you, you’d be  _ dead _ Jaskier. You aren’t- built the same as I am.” 

Jaskier’s eyes flick up to him, and for a second Geralt sees hurt flash over his face before anger replaces it. “I am well aware of our differences, Geralt. But I can handle nekkers, as you’ve just seen.”

Geralt growls, shaking his head. He isn’t sure how to get it through Jaskier’s damn head, and his heart is thundering at the thought of Jaskier being here. “Why don’t you listen to me?”

“Because I am tired of being _ left behind! _ ” Geralt hides the flinch at the way that Jaskier’s voice raises, and he meets Jaskier’s glare with one of his own.

“I am not-”

“One day, Geralt, you are going to leave on a contract without me, and you  _ won’t come back _ . And I don’t know what I’d do if I weren’t there to do something.” jaskier’s voice is fiery with his wrath, but his voice cracks at the end and Geralt can feel his anger freezing in his veins. Geralt takes a step forward, sighing heavily, and his eyes widen at the stench that hits him. He lunges forward as a shape blurs behind Jaskier, and he tries to yank him out of the way- but it’s too late. A grotesquely clawed hand punches through Jaskier’s chest, the sound of bone crunching resounding in Geralt’s ears. Jaskier looks down as if surprised, brow furrowing at the pain, and his hands come up shakily to touch the bloody claws still stuck through him. Geralt sees Jaskier grab onto them, as if holding them will keep him steady as blood blooms across his chest, staining the white chemise beneath. 

“Jaskier-” 

The sound that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth at the sound of his name is inhuman, and Jaskier jerks as the creature behind tries to yank its hand free. Jaskier’s hands stay steady, keeping the hand firmly stuck through his chest. “Geralt, I am going to say this as calmly as I can.  _ I am not human _ . I would very much appreciate it if you would stop gawking and kill this thing.”

Geralt reels back, eyes widening, and he moves automatically on Jaskier’s command, as if he can’t control his own body. Geralt uses one quick slice to detach the beasts arm at the mid forearm and another to stab it through the heart, his silver blade coming away coated in black blood. When Geralt turns back he watches, detached, as Jaskier pulls the arm through his body, dropping it into the dirt with a scoff. Jaskier’s entire form seems to be wavering, shimmering like waves in the Toussaint sun. The wavering stops all at once, and years fall from Jaskier’s form like leaves in the fall. His wrinkles smooth away, his back straightens a bit, and he turns to Geralt, ever the youthful nineteen year old that Geralt remembers from Posada. 

“That was my favorite doublet.” Geralt stares, horrified, as the hole in Jaskier’s chest knits itself back together, until all that’s left is the hole in his clothes and the red blood smeared across his skin. Geralt feels himself sagging, thigh protesting at holding him, and Jaskier reaches out to prop him up one handed. Geralt’s nostrils flare, an automatic bolt of apprehension shooting through him, and Geralt is backing up, out of Jaskier’s grip before he knows what he’s doing. “Geralt, please, I can- explain everything.” 

“What are you?” Jaskier grimaces, whistling and waiting as Roach comes trotting up. He doesn’t answer until Geralt pulls himself up into the saddle, and he takes the reins to lead them home. 

“A higher vampire.”

“Like Regis.” Jaskier’s head dips in a nod, and he glances every so often up at Geralt to ensure he’s still on his horse. 

“Regis and I hail from the same clan. He’s a… well, for lack of a better word he’s like a brother to me.” 

“How old are you?”

“Just shy of three hundred.” Jaskier’s voice is wry, and Geralt can see that Jaskier wants to say something about asking people their ages, but he refrains. The trek back to the vineyard seems to take half as much time as the trip out, and Geralt’s head is swimming from blood loss by the time they get back. Jaskier has to help him slide from Roach’s back, and he tucks one of Geralt’s arms over his shoulder as they hobble back inside. No one is in the house when Jaskier pushes open the door to Geralt’s room, depositing the witcher onto the bed. “Stay here.”

Geralt doesn’t have the strength to argue with him, and he instead works to shed his armor, leaving it on the floor. He’s panting by the time that’s done, and his fingers shake as he peels his pants off, snarling as the fabric pulls across his cut. He should have just cut them off, but if he can salvage them he’s going to. His thigh is a mess of blood and torn flesh, and he realizes with faint fear that his artery has been cut. How he’s made it back here is a feat in itself, and he’s staring numbly at his wound when Jaskier comes back. Geralt sees Jaskier pause, stumbling, and when he looks up Jaskier’s pupils are blown so wide he can no longer see the blue of Jaskier’s eyes. The bowl of water and towels is set hastily on the nightstand before Jaskier drops into a crouch beside Geralt, grabbing at his thigh and twisting it to get a better look. Geralt hears himself gasp in pain, but his head is growing fuzzy and his eyesight is fading. 

“Jask-”

“You’re losing too much blood.”

“Already lost too much.”

“No.  _ No _ . I can-”

“It’s okay.” Geralt reaches a shaking hand up to touch Jaskier’s cheek, and Jaskier leans into the touch. 

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier says, and Geralt wants to ask him what for, but then teeth are digging into his thigh and his pain increases tenfold. It only lasts a moment, and then cold spreads through his thigh. Geralt watches in morbid fascination as Jaskier pulls back, eyeing the cut and then licking a long stripe through the bloody mess. Geralt’s other thigh jerks in surprise, and he has no clue what Jaskier is doing but he does it again, and then again before sitting back and pressing a hand to his mouth. His fingers are trembling, covered in blood, but Geralt’s bleeding is already slowing, and he watches as his thigh heals until all that’s left is a long, pink scar. Jaskier brings the bowl of water close now and wipes the blood from Geralt’s skin, stripping off his boots and his ruined pants. His hands are gentle as he tucks Geralt into bed, and Geralt sees tears sliding through the blood still on Jaskier’s face, pink drops staining his shirt. 

Geralt has heard about vampire saliva before- it’s a powerful healing aid, one near impossible to harvest. He’s never seen it in action, never had any reason to let a vampire get close enough to use it, but his fingers trace over the scar on his thigh over and over again. A hand smooths over his forehead, pushing his hair back, and Jaskier leans down, blue eyes locking with Geralt’s. “Sleep, love.”

Geralt’s eyes close before he can protest, and he slips into a black, dreamless sleep. He faintly realizes as he drifts off that Jaskier has coerced him, and he tries to feel angry, but the thought slips away from him. 

His room is dark when Geralt wakes later that night, and he sits up in bed, pressing a hand to his thigh as a dull ache settles into his skin. “A bite will only take the pain away for so long.”

Geralt jerks at Regis’ voice, and he looks to see Regis leaning against the wall by the window. Geralt’s voice is rough as he talks, and he lays back in bed carefully. “How did you get here?”

“Jaskier summoned me. He needed someone to watch over you while you recovered.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“The blood.” Geralt remembers then, Jaskier’s pupils blown wide, mouth covered in blood, and his stomach twists harshly at the thought. He has no clue if Jaskier broke an oath by helping him, some personal creed, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to ask him. He can feel anger present as well, festering in the back of his mind, but he can’t quite put to words what is making him angry, so he tries to push it back. 

“Where is he?”

“He needed some time to collect his thoughts. He should be back momentarily.” Regis steps away from the window, moving to stand by the bedside, and Geralt pulls himself up to a semi sitting position, propped up against the headboard. “Geralt, you are one of my dearest friends.”

“I know.” His voice is quiet, and Regis reaches out to lay a hand on Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Remember that when he comes back. And when you talk.” Geralt hums, nodding, and that’s the best that he can offer right now. Regis leaves him once he knows Geralt isn’t on the cusp of death, and Geralt spends the time he’s left alone to think. He idly rubs at the muscle of his thigh, trying to work the ache out and knee jumping every time he touches the sensitive scar. It will deaden eventually, hopefully, but even the brush of the blanket sends flares down to his toes and the sensation is uncomfortable. A knock sounds a bit later, and Geralt calls a soft ‘come in’ to allow whoever it is to step in. Geralt can already smell who it is, and his heart lurches in his chest. Jaskier is subdued, quiet when he steps inside, closing the door behind him and wringing his hands. He’s clean of blood and in a new change of clothes, but his eyes are shadowed and his steps measured as he comes closer. 

“How does your thigh feel?” Geralt grunts, not wanting to say that it hurts, but Jaskier knows him too well and he nods, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed. “I can numb it again, if you’d like.” 

Geralt shakes his head, and Jaskier sighs, glancing up at him. He squirms under Geralt’s gaze, seeming more and more nervous, until he’s on the verge of babbling, and Geralt stops him before he can start. “You didn’t tell me.”

“How do you tell? Should I have said ‘Geralt, love of my life, I’ve been lying to you our entire lives, I’m a higher vampire.’ I- couldn’t.” 

“Regis is my best friend.” Geralt points out, and Jaskier sighs in frustration, raking his fingers back through his hair and not caring when it stands up oddly.

“I didn’t know you knew him until you brought me to meet him. I wanted to tell you then, but I couldn’t find the right moment and-”

“You didn’t trust me.” There it is, what’s been gnawing at the back of Geralt’s mind. Anger rises in his throat, and his words come faster and faster until he’s choking on them. “You followed me for  _ twenty years _ , and didn’t trust me enough with this secret. Watched me let others go, refused to kill them. And you  _ lied _ to me.”

“I trust you with my  _ life _ .” Jaskier snarls, dragging his hands down his face and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. The part of Geralt that loves Jaskier wants to reach out and comfort him, but Geralt’s anger is a beast of its own and he can feel himself trembling with it. “But I- I’m a coward and how do you tell the witcher you’re madly in love with that you’re a monster?” 

“With words. The things you claim to be so good with.” His words are cutting and he can see Jaskier flinch, but his heart hurts and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to think. He doesn’t  _ care _ that Jaskier is a vampire, doesn’t care that he isn’t human in the slightest. He just- wanted to be trusted. To share everything that he could with Jaskier. He withdraws into himself then, wanting to protect the gaping, bleeding wound in his chest. He doesn’t know what of Jaskier is a fable meant to make Geralt trust him and what’s real, and the though carves its way deeper into his chest. “Who are you? Really?” 

“I don’t know.” Is all that Jaskier can say, and Geralt turns away from him then. Jaskier leaves the room without saying anything else, and his steps are silent where before Geralt knew them by heart. Geralt spends the day in his room, hiding away and unable to face anyone else. The pain in his thigh ramps up when he stands, and he practices footwork until he can’t bear his own weight anymore, and then he collapses back in bed. The pain is a welcome distraction, and Geralt sinks into the oblivion it brings, curling up in bed and fingers digging into the muscle so it won’t fade. He leaves the room at Marlene’s insistence on the second day, joining them at the breakfast table but hardly saying a word. B.B. seems worried, but knows better than to ask questions, and Marlene hugs Geralt until the man finally hugs her back, shuddering. She sees the horror in Geralt’s eyes that he won’t say, and she sends him out to the garden to harvest plants, telling him that doing work will do him some good. 

The sun is warm on his back and for as muddled as his mind feels, being outside helps, and he picks all of the plants that are ready before retreating to the lab in the cellar. The sharp alchemical smell of the old equipment is familiar, and he spends the morning crafting as many potions as he can with the supplies on hand. His mind processes while he works, mulling over Jaskier’s words. He hasn’t seen the bard since Geralt sent him away, and his scent is stale throughout the house. He wonders where he is, if he’s safe, and it feels like a sword through the chest to think about how he’d pushed the man away. Geralt has to face what he is every day of his life, face the stares and the threats, but Jaskier.... Jaskier doesn’t. He blends in as easily as any human would, moving through the world invisible, outlasting friends and in constant fear.

No wonder Jaskier didn’t tell him. He’d pushed Jaskier away immediately, just like the man expected, and the vial in Geralt’s hand shatters in his grip when he thinks that. He really wasn’t any better than the humans that Jaskier has no doubt dealt with before. Suddenly he wants nothing more than to find Jaskier, to beg him to stay and apologize for being an ass. Geralt cleans up the mess that he made in the lab before heading inside for lunch. He’s sitting at the table, plate still in front of him when lavender fills his nose, sharp and new, and his head whips up. He follows the scent, but it’s everywhere and Geralt can’t pinpoint where it ends or begins. He checks the guest bedroom, but the sheets are freshly made, undisturbed, and Jaskier’s pack is still on top of the dresser where it belongs. 

Geralt goes down to his room, hoping, praying, but Jaskier isn’t there either. The source of the scent seems to be a stack of books on his nightstand, a piece of paper folded on top. Jaskier’s scrawling, elegant script is obvious, and Geralt snatches the note up to read it. 

_ You need time, and I aim to give it to you. You asked me who I was, and I couldn’t answer. Maybe these can. _

Geralt’s gaze goes to the books and he picks the first one up off the top. It’s old, the pages yellowed and the spine protesting when he opens the cover. He looks through it, and most of it is in a language Geralt doesn’t understand. But there, near the end, it switches to common, and Geralt realizes with a shock that these are  _ journals. _ Journals dating back almost three hundred years exactly. Geralt pours over the journals, wanting to know more, to hear Jaskier’s voice without him speaking. 

The first journals from when he’s young are hopeful, optimistic, and Regis is talked about more than Geralt would have expected. It chronicles Jaskier’s lessons in controlling his emotions around humans, fighting the draw of blood, and hiding what he is. It mentions something about magnetism a few times, but Geralt isn’t sure if that’s referring to a vampire's inherent powers of coercion, so he tucks that away to ask Jaskier about later. Despite how old the journals are, Jaskier’s personality shines through in his words, the small snippets of complaints about Regis being hard on him, the lamenting of passing fashion or music. There’s plenty of music, scraps of paper tucked between pages with the names of songs or little snippets of sheet music that Geralt can’t read. Geralt lights all the candles in his room when it gets dark, unable to put down the journal he has laying in his lap.

Jaskier’s tone shifts around his 200th year, the joy fading from the pages. His words become melancholic, morose, and his journal entries become shorter and shorter. An entire year is missing before Jaskier writes again, and it’s only to lament his long lifespan. To point out how Regis refused to let him go. Geralt’s heart pounds at the insinuation within those words, and he finds himself reading faster and faster. The next entry is a short story about a ball that Jaskier went to, but in it Geralt can feel hope struggling to rise. Jaskier had finally played for an audience for the first time, and had been paid handsomely for it. Music begins to crop up intermittently, songs that Geralt knows vaguely from childhood. Songs that Jaskier  _ wrote _ , published under a dozen different names. Then near the day that they’d first met in Posada, Jaskier bursts into multicolor life. 

His journals are smaller, but the pages are chock full of stories- embellishments of Geralt’s heroics but also observations. Questions about Geralt that Jaskier never voiced aloud, little notes on what Geralt likes and dislikes. Drawings of him, of Roach, of various plants Geralt had pointed out for collection. The melancholy hanging around his earlier entries falls away entirely, and Geralt remembers half the conversations they’d had, Jaskier scribbling in his journal for no apparent reason. He’s staring at a drawing of his sword, rendered in incredible detail when he flips the page, eyes drawn to the entry. 

_ Geralt talks in his sleep. Nothing that would embarrass him, but he calls out for his family. I hear him beg sometimes for people I know are dead, beg for people to make it stop. It breaks my heart to hear him this way, so sad, but when I ask in the morning he looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. I suppose I overstep too much.  _

Geralt frowns at that. He had nightmares frequently, but he didn’t know he talked. Didn’t know that Jaskier was even awake to hear him. Though, as a vampire he doesn’t really need sleep, and judging by how full the journals are, he spent more time writing or drawing than ever sleeping. He skims through the newer journals, knowing most of what happened between the two of them, but lingers on the newest entries. The ink is fresher, darker, and they’re dated only a couple weeks ago. 

_ Geralt took me to a cemetery today. I wanted to call him crazy, because what would we possibly find in a cemetery? But we found more than I could have expected. Regis is here, in Toussaint, and apparently good friends with Geralt. Knowingly. Geralt doesn’t seem to care that he’s a higher vampire, and that should be good, right? So why does my heart pound at the thought of telling him? _

More is added later, and Geralt’s heart kicks up in his chest.

_ He loves me. I know it now, after their conversation while I was carried home. How can I continue this sham, lying to him? I didn’t mean for it to get this far. I have to tell him in the morning when he wakes. If I don’t, I fear I never will, and he deserves better. So much better. _

The last entry in the journal is longer than others, and he flips past just to make sure there isn’t anymore before he reads. It almost feels like an invasion to read Jaskier’s thoughts, but they’re all he has at the moment and reading them seems easier than making Jaskier talk. 

_ He kissed me today. I wanted to tell him, but his touch was so soft and my coward’s heart buckled. His lips are as tender as I’ve always imagined, and I found myself kissing him back before I could tell him to wait. I worry for him when he goes off on his own, and I want nothing more than to yell at him, to shake him and tell him there is no way he’ll lose me to a monster. That the only one in danger is  _ **_him_ ** _. He’s the best man that I’ve ever met, and the day that he finally leaves this world is the day that I leave it too. I love him too much to endure after he’s gone, and I only hope that if he goes, I’m there to send him off. To hold him in his last moments, to kiss him and tell him it will all be okay. Oh, to kiss him. I have to do it more, as much as I can, because if I don’t I fear I’ll drive myself mad with wanting.  _

He feels tears escape him then, and he wipes them away quickly, breath shuddering in his chest. He closes the journal, tucking it back with its brothers, and hears soft footsteps on the floor outside his room. They linger by his door, the scent of lavender and sadness drifting to him. Geralt is up and out of bed before he can doubt himself, and he nearly rips the door off the hinges opening it.

“Jaskier.” Geralt breathes, staring wide eyed as Jaskier freezes in the middle of the room, near the door. He looks haggard, dark shadows under his eyes and hair a mess. 

“Geralt. I was just-”

Geralt is moving forward, feet carrying him unconsciously. His hand comes up to cup the back of Jaskier’s head, and he’s kissing the bard without another thought. Jaskier freezes, making a soft, wounded sound against his lips, and Geralt shudders. He’s still moving, doesn’t stop until Jaskier’s back hits the wall and Geralt presses him bodily into it. Jaskier arches up against him then, hands scrabbling to grab onto Geralt’s shoulders as Geralt hoists him up into his arms. Jaskier’s thighs are snug and warm around his hips, and Geralt kisses him harder, lapping into his mouth and tasting the moan that escapes. Jaskier uses a hand to shove them away from the wall while the other buries in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt finds himself stumbling back, holding Jaskier’s full weight in his arms easily. Jaskier’s thighs flex around him, lift him slightly so that Geralt has to tilt his head back to kiss him properly. 

Geralt hears furniture scraping across the ground as Jaskier’s fingers twitch, and he’s guided back into his room, the door slamming and locking behind them. Jaskier kisses him greedily, like this is the last chance he’ll get, and Geralt responds in kind. He presses Jaskier up against the door and Jaskier moans into his mouth, grinding against him and tugging at his hair. Geralt pulls back then, huffing a laugh when Jaskier chases him. 

“Jaskier- hold on-”

“For what?” Jaskier’s voice is breathless, and he looks as gorgeous as he did twenty years ago and Geralt’s heart constricts, threatening to burst. 

“I can’t- do this without- apologizing.”

“You don’t-’

“I do,” Geralt interrupts, cupping Jaskier’s cheek and brushing his thumb along his cheekbone. “I pushed you away. I was in shock and- I was awful to you.”

“It wasn’t as if I didn’t deserve it.” Geralt shakes his head, kissing Jaskier again and pressing their foreheads together. Jaskier pants softly, lips parted, and Geralt can see that his teeth are pointy and sharp, just like Regis’. How he never noticed before with how much Jaskier smiled he doesn’t know. 

“You didn’t. You don’t. I read the journals.” Jaskier’s eyes flick over to the neat stack on the nightstand, and his eyes are scared when he meets Geralt’s gaze again. “I know who you are. Always. It was cruel of me to say anything otherwise. Will you- forgive me?”

“Only if you forgive me for being so foolish for so long.”

“Done.” Jaskier laughs then, relieved, and Geralt tilts his head to kiss the laughter from his lips. This time when they fall in bed together, hands roaming and lips kiss bruised, it’s with new eyes. Geralt explores Jaskier slower, holds him tighter and presses deep into him. Jaskier shakes in his lap, trembling and twitching with each feeling, and Geralt chases the experience of leaving Jaskier speechless. Geralt doesn’t let Jaskier get far, even when they’re done, and he sleeps with Jaskier tucked against his side. 

-*-

He wakes to slow, soft kisses being pressed into his neck, and he arches to allow Jaskier more room to work. Jaskier hums in thanks, taking his time to explore, and Geralt slides fingertips up and down Jaskier’s side lazily. 

“How did you hide so long?” The question has been in his head for days now and Jaskier chuckles, smiling against Geralt’s skin. He nibbles at a particular sensitive spot, making Geralt gasp, and his fingers press into Jaskier’s ribs in warning. Jaskier kisses the spot in apology, and goes up onto an elbow to look down at Geralt. 

“Magnetism.”

“You mentioned it in your journal.”

“Mhmm. It allows me to cloak my features, make people see what I want them to see.”

“Isn’t that something all higher vampires can do?” Jaskier shakes his head, smiling.

“No. Remember from your bestiary? Each higher vampire has an innate ability-”

“That makes them unique and impossible to classify. Like Dettlaff’s herd mentality.” Geralt can feel sleep sliding from him, and he grows more and more interested when he sees the grin on Jaskier’s face. 

“Precisely.” 

“Explain it?” Geralt phrases it as a question, but he’s curious and it sounds more like a command than anything. Jaskier laughs though, leaning down to kiss Geralt softly before he settles against Geralt’s side. 

“I can manipulate how others see me, how they perceive me. I use it as sparingly as I can, really. It’s a lot of work to keep up, so I don’t go over the top with it. Wrinkles for the most part, because a human who doesn't age is suspicious.”

“You aren’t using it now.” 

“No. I don’t think I have to.” Jaskier’s voice quirks as if asking  _ should I be? _ and Geralt hums softly. “Let me show you. Give me the name of someone we know.”

“Triss.” Jaskier raises a brow, but Geralt shrugs. “She looks the least like you.”

Geralt sits up with Jaskier, and he watches as that same heat-like shimmer overtakes Jaskier. Only this time it isn’t kept to his face; it envelops him completely, and when it subsides Triss sits before him, curly hair loose around her shoulders and an arm clasped over her chest. Geralt reaches out to tug on a strand of hair, and his lips part in surprise when he actually feels the strands between his fingers. Triss shimmers again, and the illusion slips away, leaving Jaskier in her place. 

“Making people see is one thing. Making them feel, and believe? That’s an art all it’s own.”

“Does that carry over to your music?”

Jaskier scoffs, offended, and he gives Geralt a withering look. Geralt raises his hands in surrender and Jaskier huffs. “No. Music is something that I happen to be good at.”

“I have another question.”

“And you haven’t asked yet?” Geralt hesitates, unsure of if he really wants to, but Jaskier prods him gently and he takes Jaskier’s hand in his. 

“When I woke up, after the fight. Regis was here. He said you needed to clear your head because of the blood.” Jaskier hums, goading him on, and Geralt can feel heat rising up his neck and onto his cheeks. “Do you- have the same problem that Regis does?”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment before he leans forward, placing a soft kiss on Geralt’s neck. “No. I don’t drink if I can help it. It doesn’t appeal to me much.”

“Then, when you uh, licked my wound?”

“That’s different.” Jaskier’s voice is defensive, and Geralt finds heat pooling in his stomach when Jaskier noses at his neck and takes a deep breath. “ _ You _ appeal to me. Very much so.” 

“And if I- wanted to let you?” Jaskier’s lips quirk in a smile against his skin, and Geralt shudders when sharp teeth just barely prick at his skin. 

“Then we’ll have to empty the house.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier makes good on a promise, and Geralt explores something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah this feels surreal posting the final chapter? It might be just... pure smut but I love these idiots so much and I love this AU

Geralt had a fascination with Jaskier’s mouth. He wasn’t sure if it was because they were together now or because he knew what Jaskier was, but he stared. He also didn’t know which would be worse. His lips were always moving, talking or smiling or singing, and Geralt got to see first hand how he did  _ not _ hide those sharp teeth of his. Not in a way that affected Geralt anymore. Jaskier had dropped his glamour after Geralt had caught him a week ago and apologized. Jaskier was not amused when Geralt had called it an illusion, because he ‘wasn’t a mage’, and so Geralt had asked what he  _ should _ call it. 

Geralt found himself watching Jaskier far more than was necessary, but he found Jaskier watching him nearly as much, eyes dark with hunger. The look made Geralt intimately aware of the blood rushing through him every time, as if it called to Jaskier as much as Jaskier called to him with a sly smile or crook of the finger. Geralt had just about had enough of it too- so that afternoon, Geralt told B.B. that under no circumstances was anyone to come into the house after lunch. B.B. had been a bit confused by the request, but did as he was instructed. Workers were cleared out quickly, and Geralt and Jaskier were the only ones around for dinner that night. 

Jaskier had quirked a brow when people had begun to clear out, but Geralt merely sipped his drink and shrugged. He was the one to take care of the dishes that night, and he was drying his hands, trying to figure out how to broach the subject when arms wrapped around his waist and a slim body pressed against his back. Lips press against the skin right behind his ear, and Jaskier’s voice is velvet. 

“ _ Someone _ has plans.” Geralt hums, leaning back into Jaskier’s arms and delighting in the easy way that Jaskier’s arms tighten around him. “Are you that eager, darling? It’s hardly been a week.”

“I’ve been patient this long.” Geralt’s voice is scratchy, rough in his ears compared to Jaskier’s, but Jaskier chuckles, and his voice takes on a husky tone. 

“I would say so.” Jaskier grazes his teeth over Geralt’s neck, sending shivers down his spine, and he wordlessly takes Geralt's hand to lead him from the kitchen. Geralt hardly registers going through the main room to get to his bedroom, but he hears when the lock clicks, shutting the two of them in. Jaskier leans back against the door, eyes half lidded, and he nods toward the bed. “Undress.” 

This- isn’t quite how he was expecting things to start, but Jaskier’s voice is firm and Geralt does as he asks. He feigns calm indifference the best he can, tugging his shirt up and over his head and slipping out of his boots. He pauses for a moment when he gets to his pants, glancing up at Jaskier, and he smirks when he sees Jaskier watching, enraptured. The ties come undone easily, and Geralt lets them drop, stepping out and trying not to feel self conscious. Jaskier’s eyes roam over him, taking in the sight of Geralt undressed, and his brows raise.

“You aren’t done.” Warmth pools in Geralt’s stomach at Jaskier’s tone, and he hooks a thumb on either side of his smallclothes. They drop to the floor to join his other clothes, and now he’s truly bare. Jaskier huffs out a small breath, coming forward to smooth hands over Geralt’s chest. His fingers trace each scar, large or small, and something warm and flimsy takes residence in his chest. “On the bed, love.”

Geralt pushes the blankets down to the end of the bed, crawling into the middle and laying down on his back. He should feel vulnerable, exposed and on display like he is, but Jaskier stares at him like he’s been given a gift, shrugging off his doublet. It’s Geralt's turn to admire Jaskier as he strips, taking the time to pick his own clothes off the floor and tuck them somewhere safe. Jaskier digs through his things for a moment, looking for something, and comes back to Geralt quickly. He crowds into Geralt’s space, settling between his legs and humming when Geralt squeezes his thighs around Jaskier’s hips affectionately. Geralt props himself up on an elbow, admiring Jaskier between his legs and wondering aloud. “Have you done this before?”

“I’ve done many things in my life, love.” Jaskier leans down, kissing a trail from Geralt’s stomach up his chest, scraping his teeth over Geralt’s collarbone. His skin stings with the sharpness of Jaskier’s teeth, but he hasn’t drawn blood yet. “But never this.”

That pleases Geralt immensely for some reason. For Jaskier to trust him enough to even suggest, let alone go along with it? It makes heat boil through him, and he can feel his cock twitch against his hip. Jaskier notices immediately, and he brings a hand down to pet over the new scar on Geralt’s thigh. Shocks shoot through Geralt at the touch, and he gasps, thigh twitching madly the longer that Jaskier traces gentle fingers over it. None of his other scars are quite so sensitive, so new, and he reaches a hand up to draw Jaskier down. He kisses Jaskier to hide the noise he makes, and Jaskier laps greedily into his mouth, tasting them for himself and shuffling a bit closer. Geralt hears the soft pop of a cork, and he strains, listening closer. He doesn't smell anything out of the ordinary, but Jaskier has learned quickly that unless he wanted Geralt to have a sneezing fit their oil had to be relatively scentless. 

Still, he jumps at the first slick finger sliding over his hole, and he moans against Jaskier’s mouth. This is another thing they haven’t done yet- Jaskier was content to take, to rock in Geralt’s lap, but Jaskier had told him that wouldn’t happen if he drank. The thought had gotten Geralt half hard in an instant, and now as one warm finger circles his hole anticipation builds in his gut. Jaskier kisses him as he teases, pressing a finger in just to the first knuckle before slipping back out. Geralt groans against his mouth, disappointed, and his back arches against the bed when Jaskier slides a finger into him and crooks. He’s merciless immediately, and Geralt’s hips jerk when Jaskier’s finger rubs over that spot inside of him.

“Fuck, Jask-” Jaskier chuckles quietly, his other hand resting on the bed beside Geralt’s ribs. He keeps himself propped up, and the only point of contact they have is Geralt’s thighs around Jaskier and Jaskier’s finger working in and out of him slowly. Pleasure trickles through him in easy waves, washing over him and making his muscles relax. He tilts his head back, panting and groaning when a second finger prods at his rim. The second finger goes in as slowly as the first, and Geralt focuses on the feeling of being slowly and thoroughly stretched out. Jaskier spends his time trailing kisses across Geralt’s chest and collarbones, particularly taken by the juts of bone and fond of scraping his teeth over them. Geralt feels the moment that Jaskier finally breaks skin at the same time that a third finger presses up and into him, and Jaskier inhales sharply. 

He goes still over Geralt, fingers pressed deep as he inhales, breath hot against Geralt’s skin. Geralt’s hand comes up before he realizes what he’s doing, and he touches the back of Jaskier’s head lightly. “It’s okay.” 

Jaskier’s tongue flicks out, and he shudders at just the small taste, thrusting his fingers in and out roughly. Geralt moans, shifting his hips down and hand idly petting at the back of Jaskier’s head. Jaskier seems to tire of the teasing, and he pulls his fingers out, sitting back on his haunches and reaching for the oil. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, and he still seems with it as far as Geralt can tell. Geralt watches as Jaskier slicks himself up, and Jaskier has Geralt scoot further up the bed. He’s close to the headboard now as opposed to in the middle, but that seems to be what Jaskier wants. He searches Geralt’s face for a moment, and his lips twitch in a private smile. 

“You’re sure about this? I’ll be near insatiable.”

“I can handle it.” Geralt promises, spreading his legs a bit wider and smirking at the way Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. Jaskier crowds into his space, cock pressing insistently at Geralt’s hole while he tucks his face against Geralt’s neck.

“Let’s pray you can. Sing for me, love.” Geralt opens his mouth so say something cheeky, but Jaskier presses into him slowly and Geralt’s hips shift down of their own accord. He almost loses himself in that sensation alone, but teeth prick at his neck, razor sharp, and Geralt is caught between the instant of pain as Jaskier’s teeth sink in and the pleasure of Jaskier’s cock sliding deep inside him. Jaskier’s hips roll slowly as he takes his first mouthful of blood, and Geralt hears himself moan faintly over the sound of wood splintering. The drag of Jaskier’s mouth against his neck is an odd sensation, but he can’t feel Jaskier’s teeth anymore and sparks shoot over his neck and down his chest as Jaskier takes another long drink. Geralt hears wood crack again, but Jaskier’s hips pull back and snap forward and Geralt quickly stops caring about the sound. 

Geralt shifts in Jaskier’s grip, whining when Jaskier snarls against his neck and gathers him up. His head spins at the sudden change of position, and he’s seated firmly in Jaskier’s lap as Jaskier thrusts up into him. Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s neck, fingers sliding into the bard’s hair to hold him close. Jaskier makes a pleased, throaty sound against Geralt’s neck, pulling back to lap lazily at the wound. Geralt can feel his flesh knitting back together faintly, but Jaskier’s cock is pressing against his sweet spot and he’s quickly losing any semblance of formal thought. Jaskier keeps himself seated deep, grinding his hips up, and he’s so, so hard inside of Geralt, body thrumming with energy. Geralt blinks his eyes open, panting and taking in the sight of Jaskier in all his glory. 

His pupils are blown wide, overtaking the blue of his iris’ entirely, and there’s blood on his lips and smeared on his chin. Geralt dips to kiss him automatically, and the metallic copper taste of his own blood shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as it is. Jaskier seems to like Geralt lapping into his mouth for more of a taste, and he rocks up harder into Geralt. Geralt lifts and drops his hips in time with Jaskier’s thrusts, coming back together hard, and he gasps when a hand wraps firmly around his cock. He arches up into the touch immediately, grinding forward and moaning against Jaskier’s lips. His release builds rapidly as Jaskier strokes him in time with his thrusts and Geralt rocks between the two sensations, breathing raggedly. He doesn't think he could ever tire of the way Jaskier feels under him, muscles shifting with each strong, smooth thrust up into him.

“I’m- fuck, m’close, Jask.” He finds it difficult to talk, especially when Jaskier’s other hand grips his hip tight and he can imagine the bruise it'll leave. Jaskier growls softly, his hand speeding up just a bit as he thumbs the head of Geralt's cock, making the other man groan. He wants to give another warning, say something, but heat boils in his gut as Jaskier's hips stutter, a faint whine coming from Jaskier. He's close, just as desperate, and Geralt works his hips in time with Jaskier, kissing him as his release hits him. Jaskier follows a heartbeat after, snarling softly and burying himself deep, lapping into Geralt's mouth as Geralt pants, moaning and sagging in his lap. His heartbeat thunders in his ears as he tucks his face into Jaskier’s neck, panting and moaning as Jaskier works him through his orgasm. His hand stills sooner than it usually would, and Geralt makes a soft little noise in his throat. 

“Sorry I-” Jaskier’s voice is muffled, and despite having just come he’s still achingly hard inside of Geralt. 

“ _ Oh _ .” Geralt breathes, pulling back and looking closely at Jaskier. He looks- high for lack of a better word, cheeks flushed darkly and eyes half lidded. Geralt shifts in his lap, grinding down, and Jaskier moans, shuddering. “I don't want you to stop.”

Jaskier’s eyes meet his, and Geralt squeezes around Jaskier to goad him on. Jaskier snarls a warning, words scrambled in his throat, but Geralt is lifting up out of Jaskier’s lap and turning. He doesn’t get very far before Jaskier is crowding up against his back, a hand gripping the back of Geralt’s neck and pressing his chest down into the bed. Geralt goes without any resistance, trusting wholeheartedly in the man who’s got him pinned. The hand lingers for a moment, brushing Geralt’s hair out of the way before Jaskier kisses the spot. A hand guides Geralt’s hips a bit higher, and Geralt groans as Jaskier quickly seats himself back inside, teeth digging into the back of his neck without drawing blood. Geralt can feel his chest vibrate with the moan that falls from his lips, and Jaskier rumbles against his back, pleased. Jaskier’s hands are bruising on Geralt’s hips as he thrusts, fucking into Geralt with hardly a thought for anything else. The bed frame creaks perilously, protesting at Jaskier's strength, but Geralt pays it no mind, moaning as Jaskier angles his hips and slams very pointedly against his prostate. 

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s come on his thighs when Jaskier pulls back, and he has a very sudden thought that Jaskier is going to keep stuffing him fuller and fuller. One of Jaskier’s hands slides down, tracing over Geralt’s scar and tickling at the soft skin of Geralt’s inner thigh. Geralt isn’t sure what he’s doing until Jaskier’s fingers dig in a bit, spreading him a bit wider, and Geralt whines as Jaskier presses just a bit deeper. Geralt can feel himself growing closer and closer, and he’s floating pleasantly on the edge when Jaskier’s hips still and warmth floods him. He moans, tightening around Jaskier and squeaking rather unbecomingly when Jaskier snatches at his hips. 

“Sorry, you haven’t- I need-” Jaskier’s voice is deeper than Geralt has ever heard it, and Geralt shifts, arching his neck to the side. Jaskier’s nails dig into his skin, and his whole body goes still. He has the stillness of a predator, watching, waiting, and Geralt goes up onto his hands despite the way that Jaskier tries to press him back into the bed. It’s considerably harder to do now that Jaskier isn’t trying to hold back his own strength, but Geralt sits himself back in Jaskier’s lap and grinds down. His neck is still arched, and he eyes Jaskier, raising a brow as if to say  _ what are you waiting for? _ “Geralt, you could-”

“Please.” Jaskier groans, the sound vibrating against Geralt’s back, and Jaskier doesn’t say anything else as he latches back onto Geralt’s neck. The witcher moans at the flash of pain that comes with the first draw, and he melts back against Jaskier as he drinks, hips grinding lazily up into Geralt. 

He doesn’t seem as frenzied, though with each mouthful he takes Geralt’s head spins more and more and Jaskier throbs inside him. He can feel himself faintly getting sore, but Jaskier is so gentle, sipping from him slowly and rolling his hips up softly. Jaskier doesn’t do much more than that, but Geralt tenses in his lap and comes, untouched. Geralt feels Jaskier huff out a hot breath, and he twitches as Jaskier drags his fingers through the mess Geralt has made of his stomach. Geralt's eyelids flutter as he leans heavily back against Jaskier, and Jaskier pulls back, licking the wounds closed and humming into Geralt’s ear. 

“You’re so good for me, love. You’ve taken me so well. Can you be good, just a little bit longer?” Geralt nods, but he’s drifting, head swimming, and Jaskier guides the both of them into a comfortable lying position on their sides. Geralt’s eyes close once his head hits the pillow, and he relaxes back into Jaskier’s chest when the man rolls his hips. Geralt’s cock gives a twitch, but he’s exhausted already from the blood loss and he isn’t going to get anywhere. Jaskier presses his face into Geralt’s shoulder, panting raggedly against his skin and whining when Geralt squeezes down around him. “So good, can you keep that up, darling?”

Geralt gives a tired little hum but does as Jaskier asks, tightening around Jaskier and moaning softly when Jaskier shudders. Jaskier drapes an arm around Geralt, tugging him so they’re flush together, and Geralt very nearly falls asleep then and there. He feels Jaskiers teeth in his skin, little dots of pain, but he isn’t drinking, merely leaving marks that heal quickly without Jaskier needing to do anything. The backs of his shoulders are quickly covered in the marks, and each tiny taste of blood has Jaskier’s hips rutting into him a little bit harder. Geralt slides a leg forward just a bit and Jaskier cries out against his back, hips snapping up at the way Geralt squeezes around him from the movement. Geralt smiles when Jaskier whimpers his name, hips rolling up and stuttering messily as he comes, filling Geralt up even more. 

Jaskier pulls out of him slowly, as if unwilling to do so, but Geralt sighs at the reprieve, relaxing into the mattress as Jaskier pets his stomach. Geralt falls asleep to Jaskier murmuring sweet nothings against his shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness. Jaskier slips away from him at some point in the night, and he’s woken briefly to drink a tea that frankly, tastes awful. He feels much better after drinking it, and Jaskier smiles, telling him it helps with blood loss. His pupils are still blown wide and his hands shake when he takes the cup, but he’s gentle and refuses to let Geralt do anything when he smells Jaskier’s arousal. Geralt falls back asleep and doesn’t wake until he hears a soft growl and senses Jaskier leave the bed. 

He sits up in bed quickly at the noise, a hand shooting out to keep himself from falling over again when his head goes fuzzy at the sudden motion. The candles have burnt low, but Geralt sees Jaskier immediately, standing by the window and letting an early morning breeze blow across his skin. Geralt slips from bed, ignoring the way his hips twinge as he pads up behind Jaskier and wraps his arms around him. Jaskier freezes for an instant before he relaxes, sighing softly. “Can’t sleep?”

“Still coming down.” Geralt hums in surprise at that, and he holds Jaskier close with one hand, wrapping the other around Jaskier’s still-hard cock. Jaskier jerks in his arms, swearing, and Geralt strokes him slowly, nuzzling against Jaskier’s neck as he shudders. “Geralt…”

“Hmm?”

“If you don’t go back to sleep, you aren’t going to.” Jaskier warns, voice rough, and Geralt laughs softly. Jaskier’s hips jerk again as Geralt’s hand disappears briefly, coming back much slicker than before. Jaskier growls at the sensation and Geralt nips at his neck, smiling when Jaskier snarls dangerously. Geralt does it again, twisting his wrist at the same time, and Jaskier dissipates into smoke. It disorients Geralt for a second, but Jaskier reappears and grabs roughly at Geralt’s thighs. Geralt goes up into Jaskier’s arms easily, ankles locking behind Jaskier’s back as Jaskier lines up and lowers Geralt down onto his cock. Geralt gasps at the instant fullness, moaning when Jaskier’s teeth dig into his neck, anchoring him. 

Jaskier takes him twice up against the wall, not actively drinking but driven by the taste of Geralt in his mouth. Geralt’s thighs cramp at holding his own weight, but Jaskier keeps him up when Geralt’s own strength fails, hips pinning him back against the wall and dragging moan after moan out of him. He’s sore in ways he’s never been before, but the pain lets him drift, mind hazy, and an orgasm rocks through him when Jaskier presses up into him and bites down harder, making Geralt’s hand tighten in his hair. Jaskier’s got him back in bed when he finally begins to come down, and Geralt watches the process with sleepy eyes. Jaskier sways, pupils constricting to pinpoints and something human coming back to his eyes slowly. His hands tremble when he gets a towel to wipe Geralt up, and Geralt draws him in to kiss him gently. His mouth tastes like blood, new and old, but Geralt has quickly grown used to the taste and he holds his love close until his body finally slows. Jaskier goes boneless in his arms all at once, exhausted, and Geralt hugs him close as the two of them drift off. 

-*- 

Geralt hears a crow cawing outside when he wakes up, the sun low in the sky. They’ve been locked away for more than a day, based upon the sunlight rapidly leaving them, and Geralt twitches his fingers to light the candles in the room. They’re practically nubs by now, but they’ll do as Geralt rises from bed. His knees give out briefly when he first stands, back protesting, but he gives himself a moment and then rises again. Jaskier is curled up on the bed, a hand idly searching for Geralt. He doesn’t find him, but he does grab a pillow and clutch it close, appeased by the scent Geralt has left on it. Geralt peers out the window at the crows lining the stone wall outside his house, and as soon as the first crow spots him the rest of them alight, flying off into the night. Regis must be checking in on them. 

Geralt goes about drawing a bath, needing one desperately. He’s sticky from at least three different substances, and Jaskier is no better. There’s blood crusted around the corners of his mouth and smeared down the left side of his jaw and Geralt shakes his head fondly. Leave it to Jaskier to clean him up but not himself. Geralt’s back tries to protest any kind of movement, but the warm water will do wonders, and he shakes Jaskier’s shoulder gently. Jaskier blinks sleepily, and his eyes are bloodshot when he looks up at Geralt. He groans softly, burying his face back in the pillow, and Geralt coaxes his face back out. Geralt kisses him gently, and when he pulls away Jaskier chases him, not done with the kiss. Geralt uses this to get him up and out of bed, and the two of them climb into the tub, Jaskier settling in Geralt’s lap. He’s still half asleep, swaying back and forth with his eyes closed, but that’s fine with Geralt. 

Geralt takes this time to wash Jaskier up, gently scrubbing the blood from Jaskier’s cheek and laughing when Jaskier grumbles. “Lemme help….”

Jaskier tries his best to wake up, but between Geralt’s scent and the warmth of the water Jaskier drifts off again. Geralt keeps him awake enough not to drown while he washes himself up, and he’s got Jaskier bundled against his chest, fast asleep when he smells a familiar mix of herbs and cologne. 

“There  _ is _ something known as knocking.” Geralt says in greeting, Regis laughing softly and padding over. His gaze is polite as he looks the two of them over, and he raises his brows at the state Jaskier is in. 

“If it worked my friend, I think we would both do it much more often.” Regis’ gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the scene before him. There’s old blood on the sheets and the bed frame itself is in pieces. Hand sized chunks have been gouged into the wood of the headboard, and Geralt is rather proud of the destruction. Regis seems less so, but he shakes his head fondly. “You let him imbibe rather heartily.”

“That I did.”

“You two seem no worse for wear thankfully, though you’ve driven your majordomo half to worry. He knocked twice on the door before Jaskier scared him off.”

“How so?” Geralt has no doubt that Jaskier had a crow watching them for Regis when they began, not trusting himself fully. Regis perches on the chest against the far wall, resting his hands in his lap. 

“A rather spectacular growl, I was told. Rumors have spread that you took the poor lad hostage, brute that you are.” 

Geralt laughs- it should worry him more, but this is his home, and they can make whatever rumors they’d like. “So long as no one tries to burn me at the stake, I think I can live with it.” 

“If that’s Regis, tell him to fuck off.” Jaskier mumbles suddenly, shifting in Geralt’s lap and sinking a bit deeper into the warm water. “My head is killing me.” 

“With how much you drank, I’ve no doubt of that. Here.” Regis tosses a flask over to them, Geralt catching it nimbly and twisting the cap off. Whatever is inside is pungent and sharp, but Jaskier perks up and downs the flask quickly. He seems much, much better having drank whatever concoction Regis brewed up, and though his eyes are still bloodshot they’re clear and happy. 

“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Jaskier turns to look at Regis over his shoulder, and the older man laughs, standing to take the flask back and tuck it into his belt. 

“It would serve you well to be nice to me  _ before _ I bring you gifts, Jaskier.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier's cheeky grin, but Regis shakes his head, ruffling Jaskier’s hair fondly and heading for the door. The lock clicks open easily, and he pauses in the doorway. 

“I shall have to come back another night, when your staff has  _ not _ been run off.”

“Tomorrow night, then.” Regis nods, ducking out of the room as Jaskier turns back to Geralt. His eyes linger on the bed for a moment, brows twitching into a momentary frown, but Geralt’s hands pet over Jaskier’s back, drawing his attention back. Jaskier’s gaze softens, and he tips forward, kissing Geralt softly and pressing their foreheads together. “You’re okay?”

“Sore. But good.” Jaskier leans back, tracing the small rings of teeth marks that trail down Geralt’s chest. There are identical ones on his back, but they aren’t bad enough to scar, and they’ll fade in time. Geralt’s neck is another matter in itself. There are at least four new scars on his neck alone, deep bites that overlap, but Geralt is moving his head just fine and he shivers when Jaskier traces each of them. Jaskier opens his mouth to apologize, but Geralt leans up and kisses him firmly on the lips, only pulling back when Jaskier keeps his mouth shut. “I like them.”

“Are you  _ sure _ you didn’t lose too much blood? You aren’t hallucinating?”

“Fuck off.” Geralt’s tone is affectionate, and Jaskier laughs. He pulls the two of them from the rapidly cooling bathwater, steadying Geralt as they dry off. Geralt gets rid of the bathwater while Jaskier tidies their things, and Geralt’s brows go up when Jaskier comes out of the room carrying their clothes. Jaskier’s smile is sheepish, and he waves for Geralt to head up to the guest bedroom. Geralt does so with minimal protest, and only once Jaskier has deposited their clothes does he explain. Neither of them has bothered to get dressed, intent to spend the evening in bed.

“I- broke the bed, rather wonderfully. We’ll want to stay up here until they can deliver another one.” 

“When was that again?”

“The first time I bit you. And the second. And the third.” Geralt laughs as Jaskier scowls, cheeks pink. “I told you it was hard to control myself like that!”

“You did fine. You didn’t break  _ me _ at all.” 

“Not for lack of trying.” Jaskier’s fingers trace over the dark hand shaped bruises running over Geralt’s hips and thighs, but Geralt shrugs, tugging Jaskier closer and kissing him softly. He recoils when he tastes the bitter, acrid tang of whatever hangover cure Jaskier was given, and it’s Jaskier’s turn to laugh. 

“No kissing until you rinse your mouth out.” Jaskier pouts, leaning closer, but Geralt places a finger on Jaskier’s lips, pushing him back. “Go, and bring back something to snack on.”

“Pushy pushy.” Jaskier chides, disappearing down the stairs again. Geralt gets himself comfortable on the bed, idly tracing at the scars on his neck and shivering at the memory. He hears Jaskier coming up the stairs, footsteps intentionally heavy, and turns onto his side to watch him come in, carrying a tray laden with food. Geralt watches, humming as Jaskier comes over and rather elegantly crawls into bed, holding the tray in one hand and slipping under the covers to settle down beside Geralt. “Figured you might be hungry after not eating for a day.”

Geralt's stomach grumbles loudly in reply, and Jaskier laughs. Geralt tries to take something from the tray, but Jaskier tuts and seems intent to feed him. Geralt allows it after a moment, and Jaskier relaxes once Geralt’s gotten something of substance in him. Geralt’s voice is amused when he lays back among the pillows, Jaskier disposing of the tray and coming back to lay against Geralt’s side. “You like to take care of me.” 

“Geralt, I drained you nearly dry and fucked you half to death.”

“At my insistence.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, but it’s obvious he would no matter what, and Geralt feels safer and happier than he has in a while. “Would you do it again?”

“You really don’t like your blood in your body, do you?”


End file.
